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AURORA  LEIGH. 


ur 

ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING. 


FIFTH  EDITION. 


LONDON: 

CHAPMAN  AND  HALL,  193  PICCADILLY. 
I860. 


LONDON.  PRINTED  BT  W.  CLOWES  AND  SONS,  STAMFORD  STKEE'J 


REMOTE  STORAG 

3 ?/“?«. 

feMcatioit 

TO 

JOHN  KENYON,  ESQ. 


s The  words  1 cousin  ’ and  ‘ friend  ’ are  constantly  re- 
curring in  this  poem,  the  last  pages  of  which  have  been 
finished  under  the  hospitality  of  your  roof,  my  own 
dearest  cousin  and  friend; — cousin  and  friend,  in  a 
sense  of  less  equality  and  greater  disinterestedness  than 
‘ Romney ’ ’s. 

Ending,  therefore,  and  preparing  once  more  to  quit 
England,  I venture  to  leave  in  your  hands  this  book, 
the  most  mature  of  my  works,  and  the  one  into  which 
my  highest  convictions  upon  Life  and  Art  have  entered ; 
that  as,  through  my  various  efforts  in  literature  and 
steps  in  life,  you  have  believed  in  me,  borne  with  me, 
and  been  generous  to  me,  far  beyond  the  common  uses 
of  mere  relationship  or  sympathy  of  mind,  so  you  may 
kindly  accept,  in  sight  of  the  public,  this  poor  sign  of 
< esteem,  gratitude,  and  affection  from 

Your  unforgetting 

E.  B.  B. 

- 

39,  Devonshire  Place, 


October  17,  1856 


-A 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


FIKST  BOOK. 


Of  writing  many  books  there  is  no  end ; 

And  I who  have  written  much  in  prose  and  verse 
For  others’  nses,  will  write  now  for  mine, — 

Will  write  my  story  for  my  better  self 
As  when  you  paint  your  portrait  for  a friend, 

Who  keeps  it  in  a drawer  and  looks  at  it 
Long  after  he  has  ceased  to  love  you,  just 
To  hold  together  what  he  was  and  is. 

I,  writing  thus,  am  still  what  men  call  young , 

I have  not  so  far  left  the  coasts  of  life 
To  travel  inland,  that  I cannot  hear 
That  murmur  of  the  outer  Infinite 
Which  unweaned  babies  smile  at  in  their  sleep 
When  wondered  at  for  smiling ; not  so  far, 

But  still  I catch  my  mother  at  her  post 
Beside  the  nursery-door,  with  finger  up, 

4 Hush,  hush — here’s  too  much  noise !’  while  her  sweet 
eyes 

Leap  forward,  taking  part  against  her  word 

B 


2 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


In  the  child’s  riot.  Still  I sit  and  feel 
My  father’s  slow  hand,  when  she  had  left  ns  "both, 
Stroke  out  my  childish  curls  across  his  knee, 

And  hear  Assunta’s  daily  jest  (she  knew 
He  liked  it  "better  than  a better  jest) 

Inquire  how  many  golden  scudi  went 
To  make  such  ringlets.  0 my  father’s  hand, 

Stroke  heavily,  heavily  the  poor  hair  down, 

Draw,  press  the  child’s  head  closer  to  thy  knee ! 

I’m  still  too  young,  too  young,  to  sit  alone. 

I write.  My  mother  was  a Florentine, 

Whose  rare  blue  eyes  were  shut  from  seeing  me 
When  scarcely  I was  four  years  old,  my  life 
A poor  spark  snatched  up  from  a failing  lamp 
Which  went  out  therefore.  She  was  weak  and  frail ; 
She  could  not  bear  the  joy  of  giving  life, 

The  mother’s  rapture  slew  her.  If  her  kiss 
Had  left  a longer  weight  upon  my  lips 
It  might  have  steadied  the  uneasy  breath, 

And  reconciled  and  fraternised  my  soul 
With  the  new  order.  As  it  was,  indeed, 

I felt  a mother- want  about  the  world, 

And  still  went  seeking,  like  a bleating  lamb 
Left  out  at  night  in  shutting  up  the  fold, — 

As  restless  as  a nest-deserted  bird 

Grown  chill  through  something  being  away,  though  what 
It  knows  not.  I,  Aurora  Leigh,  was  born 
To  make  my  father  sadder,  and  myself 
Not  overjoyous,  truly.  Women  know 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


3 


The  way  to  rear  up  children,  (to  be  just) 

They  know  a simple,  merry,  tender  knack 
Of  tying  sashes,  fitting  baby-shoes, 

And  stringing  pretty  words  that  make  no  sense, 
And  kissing  full  sense  into  empty  words, 

Which  things  are  corals  to  cut  life  upon, 

Although  such  trifles  : children  learn  by  such, 
Love’s  holy  earnest  in  a pretty  play 
And  get  not  over-early  solemnised, 

But  seeing,  as  in  a rose-bush,  Love’s  Divine 
Which  bums  and  hurts  not, — not  a single  bloom, — 
Become  aware  and  unafraid  of  Love. 

Such  good  do  mothers.  Fathers  love  as  well 
— Mine  did,  I know, — but  still  with  heavier  brains, 
And  wills  more  consciously  responsible, 

And  not  as  wisely,  since  less  foolishly  ; 

So  mothers  have  God’s  licence  to  be  missed. 

My  father  was  an  austere  Englishman, 

Who,  after  a dry  life-time  spent  at  home 
In  college-learning,  law,  and  parish  talk, 

Was  flooded  with  a passion  unaware, 

His  whole  provisioned  and  complacent  past 
Drowned  out  from  him  that  moment.  As  he  stood 
In  Florence,  where  he  had  come  to  spend  a month 
And  note  the  secret  of  Da  Vinci’s  drains, 

He  musing  somewhat  absently  perhaps 

Some  English  question  . . whether  men  should  pay 

The  unpopular  but  necessary  tax 

With  left  or  right  hand — in  the  alien  sun 


4 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


In  that  great  square  of  the  Santissima 

There  drifted  past  him  (scarcely  marked  enough 

To  move  his  comfortable  island  scorn) 

A train  of  priestly  banners,  cross  and  psalm, 

The  white-veiled  rose-crowned  maidens  holding  up 
Tall  tapers,  weighty  for  such  wrists,  aslant 
To  the  blue  luminous  tremor  of  the  air, 

And  letting  drop  the  white  wax  as  they  went 
To  eat  the  bishop’s  wafer  at  the  church ; 

From  which  long  trail  of  chanting  priests  and  girls, 
A face  flashed  like  a cymbal  on  his  face 
And  shook  with  silent  clangour  brain  and  heart, 
Transfiguring  him  to  music.  Thus,  even  thus, 

He  too  received  his  sacramental  gift 
With  eucharistic  meanings ; for  he  loved. 

And  thus  beloved,  she  died.  I’ve  heard  it  said 
That  but  to  see  him  in  the  first  surprise 
Of  widower  and  father,  nursing  me, 

Unmothered  little  child  of  four  years  old, 

His  large  man’s  hands  afraid  to  touch  my  curls, 

As  if  the  gold  would  tarnish, — his  grave  lips 

Contriving  such  a miserable  smile 

As  if  he  knew  needs  must,  or  I should  die, 

And  yet  ’twas  hard, — would  almost  make  the  stones 
Cry  out  for  pity.  There’s  a verse  he  set 
In  Santa  Croce  to  her  memory, — 

4 Weep  for  an  infant  too  young  to  weep  much 
When  death  removed  this  mother  ’ — stops  the  mirth 
To-day  on  women’s  faces  when  they  walk 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


5 


With  rosy  children  hanging  on  their  gowns, 

Under  the  cloister  to  escape  the  sun 
That  scorches  in  the  piazza.  After  which 
He  left  our  Florence  and  made  haste  to  hide 
Himself,  his  prattling  child,  and  silent  grief, 

Among  the  mountains  above  Pelago  ; 

Because  unmothered  babes,  he  thought,  had  need 
Of  mother  nature  more  than  others  use, 

And  Pan’s  white  goats,  with  udders  warm  and  full 
Of  mystic  contemplations,  come  to  feed 
Poor  milkless  lips  of  orphans  like  his  own — 

Such  scholar-scraps  he  talked,  I’ve  heard  from  friends, 

For  even  prosaic  men  who  wear  grief  long 

Will  get  to  wear  it  as  a hat  aside 

With  a flower  stuck  in’t.  Father,  then,  and  child, 

We  lived  among  the  mountains  many  years, 

God’s  silence  on  the  outside  of  the  house, 

And  we  who  did  not  speak  too  loud  within, 

And  old  Assunta  to  make  up  the  fire, 

Crossing  herself  whene’er  a sudden  flame 
Which  lightened  from  the  firewood,  made  alive 
That  picture  of  my  mother  on  the  wall. 

The  painter  drew  it  after  she  was  dead, 

And  when  the  face  was  finished,  throat  and  hands, 
Her  cameriera  carried  him,  in  hate 
Of  the  English-fashioned  shroud,  the  last  brocade 
She  dressed  in  at  the  Pitti  ; 4 he  should  paint 
No  sadder  thing  than  that,’  she  swore,  ‘ to  wrong 
Her  poor  signora.’  Therefore  very  strange 


6 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


The  effect  was.  I,  a little  child,  would  crouch 
For  hours  upon  the  floor  with  knees  drawn  up, 

And  gaze  across  them,  half  in  terror,  half 
In  adoration,  at  the  picture  there, — 

That  swan-like  supernatural  white  life 
Just  sailing  upward  from  the  red  stiff  silk 
Which  seemed  to  have  no  part  in  it  nor  power 
To  keep  it  from  quite  breaking  out  of  bounds. 

For  hours  I sate  and  stared.  Assunta’s  awe 

And  my  poor  father’s  melancholy  eyes 

Still  pointed  that  way.  That  way  went  my  thoughts 

When  wandering  beyond  sight.  And  as  I grew 

In  years,  I mixed,  confused,  unconsciously, 

Whatever  I last  read  or  heard  or  dreamed, 

Abhorrent,  admirable,  beautiful, 

Pathetical,  or  ghastly,  or  grotesque, 

With  still  that  face  . . . which  did  not  therefore  change, 
But  kept  the  mystic  level  of  all  forms 
Hates,  fears,  and  admirations,  was  by  turns 
Ghost,  fiend,  and  angel,  fairy,  witch,  and  sprite, 

A dauntless  Muse  who  eyes  a dreadful  Fate, 

A loving  Psyche  who  loses  sight  of  Love, 

A still  Medusa  with  mild  milky  brows 
All  curdled  and  all  clothed  upon  with  snakes 
Whose  slime  falls  fast  as  sweat  will ; or  anon 
Our  Lady  of  the  Passion,  stabbed  with  swords 
Where  the  Babe  sucked  ; or  Lamia  in  her  first 
Moonlighted  pallor,  ere  she  shrunk  and  blinked 
And  shuddering  wriggled  down  to  the  unclean; 

Or  my  own  mother,  leaving  her  last  smile 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


rr 

( 


In  her  last  kiss  upon  the  baby-month 
My  father  pnshed  down  on  the  bed  for  that, — 

Or  my  dead  mother,  without  smile  or  kiss, 

Buried  at  Florence.  All  which  images, 

Concentred  on  the  picture,  glassed  themselves 
Before  my  meditative  childhood,  as 
The  incoherencies  of  change  and  death 
Are  represented  fully,  mixed  and  merged, 

In  the  smooth  fair  mystery  of  perpetual  Life. 

And  while  I stared  away  my  childish  wits 
Upon  my  mother’s  picture,  (ah,  poor  child  !) 

My  father,  who  through  love  had  suddenly 
Thrown  off  the  old  conventions,  broken  loose 
From  chin-bands  of  the  soul,  like  Lazarus, 

Yet  had  no  time  to  learn  to  talk  and  walk 
Or  grow  anew  familiar  with  the  sun, — 

Who  had  reached  to  freedom,  not  to  action,  lived, 

But  lived  as  one  entranced,  with  thoughts,  not  aims, — 
Whom  love  had  unmade  from  a common  man 
But  not  completed  to  an  uncommon  man, — 

My  father  taught  me  what  he  had  learnt  the  best 
Before  he  died  and  left  me, — grief  and  love. 

And,  seeing  we  had  books  among  the  hills, 

Strong  words  of  counselling  souls  confederate 
With  vocal  pines  and  waters, — out  of  books 
He  taught  me  all  the  ignorance  of  men, 

And  how  God  laughs  in  heaven  when  any  man 
Says  ‘ Here  I’m  learned  ; this,  I understand  ; 

In  that,  I am  never  caught  at  fault  or  doubt.’ 


8 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


He  sent  the  schools  to  school,  demonstrating 
A fool  will  pass  for  such  through  one  mistake, 

While  a philosopher  will  pass  for  such, 

Through  said  mistakes  being  ventured  in  the  gross 
And  heaped  up  to  a system. 

I am  like, 

They  tell  me,  my  dear  father.  Broader  brows 
Howbeit,  upon  a slenderer  undergrowth 
Of  delicate  features, — paler,  near  as  grave  ; 

But  then  my  mother’s  smile  breaks  up  the  whole, 

And  makes  it  better  sometimes  than  itself. 

So,  nine  full  years,  our  days  were  hid  with  God 
Among  his  mountains  : I was  just  thirteen, 

Still  growing  like  the  plants  from  unseen  roots 
In  tongue-tied  Springs, — and  suddenly  awoke 
To  full  life  and  life’s  needs  and  agonies 
With  an  intense,  strong,  struggling  heart  beside 
A stone-dead  father.  Life,  struck  sharp  on  death, 
Makes  awful  lightning.  His  last  word  was,  ‘ Love — ’ 

‘ Love,  my  child,  love,  love !’ — (then  he  had  done  with 
grief) 

‘ Love,  my  child.’  Ere  I answered  he  was  gone, 

And  none  was  left  to  love  in  all  the  world. 

There,  ended  childhood.  What  succeeded  next 
I recollect  as,  after  fevers,  men 
Thread  back  the  passage  of  delirium, 

Missing  the  turn  still,  baffled  by  the  door ; 

Smooth  endless  days,  notched  here  and  there  with  knives; 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


9 


A weary,  wormy  darkness,  spurred  i’  the  flank 
With  flame,  that  it  should  eat  and  end  itself 
Like  some  tormented  scorpion.  Then  at  last 
I do  remember  clearly,  how  there  came 
A stranger  with  authority,  not  right, 

(I  thought  not)  who  commanded,  caught  me  up 
From  old  Assunta’s  neck ; how,  with  a shriek, 

She  let  me  go, — while  I,  with  ears  too  full 
Of  my  father’s  silence,  to  shriek  back  a word, 

In  all  a child’s  astonishment  at  grief 

Stared  at  the  wharf-edge  where  she  stood  and  moaned, 

My  poor  Assunta,  where  she  stood  and  moaned ! 

The  white  walls,  the  blue  hills,  my  Italy, 

Drawn  backward  from  the  shuddering  steamer-deck, 
Like  one  in  anger  drawing  back  her  skirts 
Which  suppliants  catch  at.  Then  the  bitter  sea 
Inexorably  pushed  between  us  both, 

And  sweeping  up  the  ship  with  my  despair 
Threw  us  out  as  a pasture  to  the  stars. 

Ten  nights  and  days  we  voyaged  on  the  deep  ; 

Ten  nights  and  days  without  the  common  face 
Of  any  day  or  night ; the  moon  and  sun 
Cut  off  from  the  green  reconciling  earth, 

To  starve  into  a blind  ferocity 
And  glare  unnatural ; the  very  sky 
(Dropping  its  bell-net  down  upon  the  sea 
As  if  no  human  heart  should  ’scape  alive,) 

Bedraggled  with  the  desolating  salt, 

Until  it  seemed  no  more  that  holy  heaven 


10 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


To  which  my  father  went.  All  new  and  strange ; 
The  universe  turned  stranger,  for  a child. 

Then,  land  ! — then,  England ! oh,  the  frosty  cliffs 
Looked  cold  upon  me.  Could  I find  a home 
Among  those  mean  red  houses  through  the  fog  ? 

And  when  I heard  my  father’s  language  first 
From  alien  lips  which  had  no  kiss  for  mine 
I wept  aloud,  then  laughed,  then  wept,  then  wept, 
And  some  one  near  me  said  the  child  was  mad 
Through  much  sea-sickness.  The  train  swept  us  on. 
Was  this  my  father’s  England?  the  great  isle? 

The  ground  seemed  cut  up  from  the  fellowship 
Of  verdure,  field  from  field,  as  man  from  man ; 

The  skies  themselves  looked  low  and  positive, 

As  almost  you  could  touch  them  with  a hand, 

And  dared  to  do  it  they  were  so  far  off 
From  God’s  celestial  crystals ; all  things  blurred 
And  dull  and  vague.  Did  Shakspeare  and  his  mates 
Absorb  the  light  here  ? — not  a hill  or  stone 
With  heart  to  strike  a radiant  colour  up 
Or  active  outline  on  the  indifferent  air. 

I think  I see  my  father’s  sister  stand 

Upon  the  hall-step  of  her  country-house 

To  give  me  welcome.  She  stood  straight  and  calm, 

Her  somewhat  narrow  forehead  braided  tight 

As  if  for  taming  accidental  thoughts 

From  possible  pulses ; brown  hair  pricked  with  gray 

By  frigid  use  of  life,  (she  was  not  old 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


11 


Although  my  father’s  elder  by  a year) 

A nose  drawn  sharply,  yet  in  delicate  lines ; 

A close  mild  mouth,  a little  soured  about 
The  ends,  through  speaking  unrequited  loves 
Or  peradventure  niggardly  half-truths ; 

Eyes  of  no  colour, — once  they  might  have  smiled, 
But  never,  never  have  forgot  themselves 
In  smiling  ; cheeks,  in  which  was  yet  a rose 
Of  perished  summers,  like  a rose  in  a book, 

Kept  more  for  ruth  than  pleasure, — if  past  bloom, 
Past  fading  also. 

She  had  lived,  we’ll  say, 

A harmless  life,  she  called  a virtuous  life, 

A quiet  life,  which  was  not  life  at  all, 

(But  that,  she  had  not  lived  enough  to  know) 
Between  the  vicar  and  the  county  squires, 

The  lord-lieutenant  looking  down  sometimes 
Erom  the  empyrean  to  assure  their  souls 
Against  chance-vulgarisms,  and,  in  the  abyss 
The  apothecary,  looked  on  once  a year 
To  prove  their  soundness  of  humility. 

The  poor-club  exercised  her  Christian  gifts 
Of  knitting  stockings,  stitching  petticoats, 
Because  we  are  of  one  flesh  after  all 
And  need  one  flannel  (with  a proper  sense 
Of  difference  in  the  quality) — and  still 
The  book-club,  guarded  from  your  modem  trick 
Of  shaking  dangerous  questions  from  the  crease, 
Preserved  her  intellectual.  She  had  lived 
A sort  of  cage -bird  life,  born  in  a cage, 


12 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


Accounting  that  to  leap  from  perch  to  perch 
Was  act  and  joy  enough  for  any  bird. 

Dear  heaven,  how  silly  are  the  things  that  live 
In  thickets,  and  eat  berries ! 

I,  alas, 

A wild  bird  scarcely  fledged,  was  brought  to  her  cage, 
And  she  was  there  to  meet  me.  Very  kind. 

Bring  the  clean  water,  give  out  the  fresh  seed.  , 

She  stood  upon  the  steps  to  welcome  me, 

Calm,  in  black  garb.  I clung  about  her  neck, — 

Young  babes,  who  catch  at  every  shred  of  wool 
To  draw  the  new  light  closer,  catch  and  cling 
Less  blindly.  In  my  ears,  my  father’s  word 
Hummed  ignorantly,  as  the  sea  in  shells, 

‘ Love,  love,  my  child.’  She,  black  there  with  my  grief, 
Might  feel  my  love— she  was  his  sister  once, 

I clung  to  her.  A moment  she  seemed  moved, 

Kissed  me  with  cold  lips,  suffered  me  to  cling, 

And  drew  me  feebly  through  the  hall  into 
The  room  she  sate  in. 

There,  with  some  strange  spasm 
Of  pain  and  passion,  she  wrung  loose  my  hands 
Imperiously,  and  held  me  at  arm’s  length, 

And  with  two  gray-steel  naked-bladed  eyes 
Searched  through  my  face, — ay,  stabbed  it  through  and 
through, 

Through  brows  and  cheeks  and  chin,  as  if  to  find 
A wicked  murderer  in  my  innocent  face, 

If  not  here,  there  perhaps.  Then,  drawing  breath, 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


13 


She  struggled  for  her  ordinary  calm 

And  missed  it  rather, — told  me  not  to  shrink, 

As  if  she  had  told  me  not  to  lie  or  swear, — 

‘ She  loved  my  father  and  would  love  me  too 
As  long  as  I deserved  it.’  Very  kind. 

I understood  her  meaning  afterward ; 

She  thought  to  find  my  mother  in  my  face, 

And  questioned  it  for  that.  For  she,  my  aunt. 

Had  loved  my  father  truly,  as  she  could, 

And  hated,  with  the  gall  of  gentle  souls, 

My  Tuscan  mother  who  had  fooled  away 
A wise  man  from  wise  courses,  a good  man 
From  obvious  duties,  and,  depriving  her, 

His  sister,  of  the  household  precedence, 

Had  wronged  his  tenants,  robbed  his  native  land, 
And  made  him  mad,  alike  by  life  and  death. 

In  love  and  sorrow.  She  had  pored  for  y ears 
What  sort  of  woman  could  be  suitable 
To  her  sort  of  hate,  to  entertain  it  with, 

And  so,  her  very  curiosity 

Became  hate  too,  and  all  the  idealism 

She  ever  used  in  life,  was  used  for  hate. 

Till  hate,  so  nourished,  did  exceed  at  last 
The  love  from  which  it  grew,  in  strength  and  heat, 
And  wrinkled  her  smooth  conscience  with  a sense 
Of  disputable  virtue  (say  not,  sin) 

When  Christian  doctrine  was  enforced  at  church. 

And  thus  my  father’s  sister  was  to  me 


14 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


My  mother’s  hater.  From  that  day,  she  did 
Her  duty  to  me,  (I  appreciate  it 
In  her  own  word  as  spoken  to  herself) 

Her  duty,  in  large  measure,  well-pressed  out, 

But  measured  always.  She  was  generous,  bland, 
More  courteous  than  was  tender,  gave  me  still 
The  first  place, — as  if  fearful  that  God’s  saints 
Would  look  down  suddenly  and  say,  ‘ Herein 
You  missed  a point,  I think,  through  lack  of  love/ 
Alas,  a mother  never  is  afraid 
Of  speaking  angerly  to  any  child, 

Since  love,  she  knows,  is  justified  of  love. 

And  I,  I was  a good  child  on  the  whole, 

A meek  and  manageable  child.  Why  not  ? 

I did  not  live,  to  have  the  faults  of  life : 

There  seemed  more  true  life  in  my  father’s  grave 
Than  in  all  England.  Since  that  threw  me  off 
Who  fain  would  cleave,  (his  latest  will,  they  say, 
Consigned  me  to  his  land)  I only  thought 
Of  lying  quiet  there  where  I was  thrown 
Like  sea- weed  on  the  rocks,  and  suffering  her 
To  prick  me  to  a pattern  with  her  pin 
Fibre  from  fibre,  delicate  leaf  from  leaf, 

And  dry  out  from  my  drowned  anatomy 
The  last  sea-salt  left  in  me. 

So  it  was. 

I broke  the  copious  curls  upon  my  head 
In  braids,  because  she  liked  smooth-ordered  hair. 

I left  off  saying  my  sweet  Tuscan  words 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


15 


Which  still  at  any  stirring  of  the  heart 
Came  up  to  float  across  the  English  phrase 
As  lilies,  ( Bene  or  Che  che ,)  "because 
She  liked  my  father’s  child  to  speak  his  tongue. 

I learnt  the  collects  and  the  catechism, 

The  creeds,  from  Athanasius  hack  to  Nice, 

The  Articles,  the  Tracts  against  the  times, 

(By  no  means  Buonaventure’s  4 Prick  of  Love,’) 

And  various  popular  synopses  of 
Inhuman  doctrines  never  taught  by  John, 

Because  she  liked  instructed  piety. 

I learnt  my  complement  of  classic  French 
(Kept  pure  of  Balzac  and  neologism) 

And  German  also,  since  she  liked  a range 
Of  liberal  education, — tongues,  not  books. 

I learnt  a little  algebra,  a little 

Of  the  mathematics, — brushed  with  extreme  flounce 

The  circle  of  the  sciences,  because 

She  misliked  women  who  are  frivolous. 

I learnt  the  royal  genealogies 
Of  Oviedo,  the  internal  laws 
Of  the  Burmese  empire, — by  how  many  feet 
Mount  Chimborazo  outsoars  Tenerifle, 

What  navigable  river  joins  itself 
To  Lara,  and  what  census  of  the  year  five 
Was  taken  at  Klagenfurt, — because  she  liked 
A general  insight  into  useful  facts. 

I learnt  much  music, — such  as  would  have  been 

As  quite  impossible  in  Johnson’s  day 

As  still  it  might  be  wished — fine  sleights  of  hand 


16 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


And  unimagined  fingering,  shuffling  off 
The  hearer’s  soul  through  hurricanes  of  notes 
To  a noisy  Tophet ; and  I drew  . . costumes 
From  French  engravings,  nereids  neatly  draped, 
(With  smirks  of  simmering  godship) — I washed  in 
Landscapes  from  nature  (rather  say,  washed  out). 

I danced  the  polka  and  Cellarius, 

Spun  glass,  stuffed  birds,  and  modelled  flowers  in  wi 
Because  she  liked  accomplishments  in  girls. 

I read  a score  of  books  on  womanhood 
To  prove,  if  women  do  not  think  at  all, 

They  may  teach  thinking,  (to  a maiden-aunt 
Or  else  the  author) — books  that  boldly  assert 
Their  right  of  comprehending  husband’s  talk 
When  not  too  deep,  and  even  of  answering 
With  pretty  ‘ may  it  please  you,’  or  ‘ so  it  is,’ — 
Their  rapid  insight  and  fine  aptitude, 

Particular  worth  and  general  missionariness, 

As  long  as  they  keep  quiet  by  the  fire 

And  never  say  ‘ no  ’ when  the  world  says  * ay,’ 

For  that  is  fatal, — their  angelic  reach 
Of  virtue,  chiefly  used  to  sit  and  darn, 

And  fatten  household  sinners, — their,  in  brief, 
Potential  faculty  in  everything 
Of  abdicating  power  in  it : she  owned 
She  liked  a woman  to  be  womanly, 

And  English  women,  she  thanked  God  and  sighed, 
(Some  people  always  sigh  in  thanking  God) 

Were  models  to  the  universe.  And  last 
I learnt  cross-stitch,  because  she  did  not  like 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


17 


To  see  me  wear  the  night  with  empty  hands 
A-doing  nothing.  So,  my  shepherdess 
Was  something  after  all,  (the  pastoral  saints 
Be  praised  for ’t)  leaning  lovelorn  with  pink  eyes 
To  match  her  shoes,  when  I mistook  the  silks ; 

Her  head  nncrashed  by  that  round  weight  of  hat 
So  strangely  similar  to  the  tortoise-shell 
Which  slew  the  tragic  poet. 

By  the  way, 

The  works  of  women  are  symbolical. 

We  sew,  sew,  prick  our  fingers,  dull  our  sight, 
Producing  what  ? A pair  of  slippers,  sir, 

To  put  on  when  you  ’re  weary — or  a stool 
To  stumble  over  and  vex  you  . . ‘ curse  that  stool !’ 
Or  else  at  best,  a cushion,  where  you  lean 
And  sleep,  and  dream  of  something  we  are  not 
But  would  be  for  your  sake.  Alas,  alas  ! 

This  hurts  most,  this — that,  after  all,  we  are  paid 
The  worth  of  our  work,  perhaps. 

In  looking  down 

Those  years  of  education  (to  return) 

I wonder  if  Brinvilliers  suffered  more 

In  the  water-torture,  . . flood  succeeding  flood 

To  drench  the  incapable  throat  and  split  the  veins  . 

Than  I did.  Certain  of  your  feebler  souls 

Go  out  in  such  a process ; many  pine 

To  a sick,  inodorous  light ; my  own  endured  : 

I had  relations  in  the  Unseen,  and  drew 

The  elemental  nutriment  and  heat 

From  nature,  as  earth  feels  the  sun  at  nights, 

c 


18 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


Or  as  a babe  sucks  surely  in  the  dark. 

I kept  the  life  thrust  on  me,  on  the  outside 
Of  the  inner  life  with  all  its  ample  room 
For  heart  and  lungs,  for  will  and  intellect, 

Inviolable  by  conventions.  God, 

I thank  thee  for  that  grace  of  thine  ! 

At  first 

I felt  no  life  which  was  not  patience, — did 
The  thing  she  bade  me,  without  heed  to  a thing 
Beyond  it,  sate  in  just  the  chair  she  placed, 

With  back  against  the  window,  to  exclude 
The  sight  of  the  great  lime-tree  on  the  lawn, 

Which  seemed  to  have  come  on  purpose  from  the  woods 
To  bring  the  house  a message, — ay,  and  walked 
Demurely  in  her  carpeted  low  rooms, 

As  if  I should  not,  harkening  my  own  steps, 

Misdoubt  I was  alive.  I read  her  books, 

Was  civil  to  her  cousin,  Romney  Leigh, 

Gave  ear  to  her  vicar,  tea  to  her  visitors, 

And  heard  them  whisper,  when  I changed  a cup, 

(I  blushed  for  joy  at  that) — 4 The  Italian  child, 

For  all  her  blue  eyes  and  her  quiet  ways, 

Thrives  ill  in  England  : she  is  paler  yet 
Than  when  we  came  the  last  time ; she  will  die.5 

4 Will  die.5  My  cousin,  Romney  Leigh,  blushed  too, 

With  sudden  anger,  and  approaching  me 

Said  low  between  his  teeth,  4 You  ’re  wicked  now  ? 

You  wish  to  die  and  leave  the  world  a-dusk 
For  others,  with  your  naughty  light  blown  out  ?5 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


19 


I looked  into  his  face  defyingly ; 

He  might  have  known  that,  being  what  I was, 

’Twas  natural  to  like  to  get  away 
As  far  as  dead  folk  can  : and  then  indeed 
Some  people  make  no  trouble  when  they  die. 

He  turned  and  went  abruptly,  slammed  the  door 
And  shut  his  dog  out. 

Romney,  Romney  Leigh. 

I have  not  named  my  cousin  hitherto, 

And  yet  I used  him  as  a sort  of  friend ; 

My  elder  by  few  years,  but  cold  and  shy 
And  absent  . . tender,  when  he  thought  of  it, 

'Which  scarcely  was  imperative,  grave  betimes, 

As  well  as  early  master  of  Leigh  Hall, 

Whereof  the  nightmare  sate  upon  his  youth 
Repressing  all  its  seasonable  delights 
And  agonising  with  a ghastly  sense 
Of  universal  hideous  want  and  wrong 
To  incriminate  possession.  When  he  came 
From  college  to  the  country,  very  oft 
He  crossed  the  hill  on  visits  to  my  aunt, 

With  gifts  of  blue  grapes  from  the  hothouses, 

A book  in  one  hand, — mere  statistics,  (if 

I chanced  to  lift  the  cover,)  count  of  all 

The  goats  whose  beards  grow  sprouting  down  toward  hell 

Against  God’s  separative  judgment-hour. 

And  she,  she  almost  loved  him, — even  allowed 
That  sometimes  he  should  seem  to  sigh  my  way : 

It  made  him  easier  to  be  pitiful, 

And  sighing  was  his  gift.  So,  undisturbed 


20 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


At  whiles  she  let  him  shut  my  music  up 
And  push  my  needles  down,  and  lead  me  out 
To  see  in  that  south  angle  of  the  house 
The  figs  grow  black  as  if  by  a Tuscan  rock, 

On  some  light  pretext.  She  would  turn  her  head 
At  other  moments,  go  to  fetch  a thing, 

And  leave  me  breath  enough  to  speak  with  him, 
For  his  sake ; it  was  simple. 

Sometimes  too 

He  would  have  saved  me  utterly,  it  seemed, 

He  stood  and  looked  so. 

Once,  he  stood  so  near 
He  dropped  a sudden  hand  upon  my  head 
Bent  down  on  woman’s  work,  as  soft  as  rain — 
But  then  I rose  and  shook  it  off  as  fire, 

The  stranger?s  touch  that  took  my  father’s  place 
Yet  dared  seem  soft. 

I used  him  for  a friend 
Before  I ever  knew  him  for  a friend. 

’Twas  better,  ’twas  worse  also,  afterward : 

We  came  so  close,  we  saw  our  differences 
Too  intimately.  Always  Bomney  Leigh 
Was  looking  for  the  worms,  I for  the  gods. 

A godlike  nature  his ; the  gods  look  down, 
Incurious  of  themselves  ; and  certainly 
"Tis  well  I should  remember,  how,  those  days, 

I was  a worm  too  and  he  looked  on  me. 

A little  by  his  act  perhaps,  yet  more 
By  something  in  me,  surely  not  my  will, 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


21 


I did  not  die.  But  slowly,  as  one  in  swoon, 

To  whom  life  creeps  back  in  the  form  of  death, 

With  a sense  of  separation,  a blind  pain 
Of  blank  obstruction,  and  a roar  i’  the  ears 
Of  visionary  chariots  which  retreat 
As  earth  grows  clearer  . . slowly,  by  degrees, 

I woke,  rose  up  . . where  was  I ? in  the  world ; 

For  uses  therefore  I must  count  worth  while. 

I had  a little  chamber  in  the  house, 

As  green  as  any  privet-hedge  a bird 

Might  choose  to  build  in,  though  the  nest  itself 

Could  show  but  dead-brown  sticks  and  straws  ; the  walls 

Were  green,  the  carpet  was  pure  green,  the  straight 

Small  bed  was  curtained  greenly,  and  the  folds 

Hung  green  about  the  window  which  let  in 

The  out-door  world  with  all  its  greenery. 

You  could  not  push  your  head  out  and  escape 
A dash  of  dawn-dew  from  the  honeysuckle, 

But  so  you  were  baptized  into  the  grace 
And  privilege  of  seeing.  . . 

First,  the  lime, 

(I  had  enough  there,  of  the  lime,  be  sure, — 

My  morning- dream  was  often  hummed  away 
By  the  bees  in  it ;)  past  the  lime,  the  lawn, 

Which,  after  sweeping  broadly  round  the  house, 

Went  trickling  through  the  shrubberies  in  a stream 
Of  tender  turf,  and  wore  and  lost  itself 
Among  the  acacias,  over  which  you  saw 
The  irregular  line  of  elms  by  the  deep  lane 


22 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


Which  stopped  the  grounds  and  dammed  the  overflow 

Of  arbutus  and  laurel.  Out  of  sight 

The  lane  was ; sunk  so  deep,  no  foreign  tramp 

Nor  drover  of  wild  ponies  out  of  Wales 

Could  guess  if  lady’s  hall  or  tenant’s  lodge 

Dispensed  such  odours, — though  his  stick  well-crooked 

Might  reach  the  lowest  trail  of  blossoming  briar 

Which  dipped  upon  the  wall.  Behind  the  elms,  ' 

And  through  their  tops,  you  saw  the  folded  hills 

Striped  up  and  down  with  hedges,  (burly  oaks 

Projecting  from  the  line  to  show  themselves) 

Through  which  my  cousin  Eomney’s  chimneys  smoked 
As  still  as  when  a silent  mouth  in  frost 
Breathes,  showing  where  the  woodlands  hid  Leigh  Hall ; 
While,  far  above,  a jut  of  table-land, 

A promontory  without  water,  stretched, — 

You  could  not  catch  it  if  the  days  were  thick, 

Or  took  it  for  a cloud  ; but,  otherwise, 

The  vigorous  sun  would  catch  it  up  at  eve 
And  use  it  for  an  anvil  till  he  had  filled 
The  shelves  of  heaven  with  burning  thunderbolts, 
Protesting  against  night  and  darkness  : — then, 

When  all  his  setting  trouble  was  resolved 
To  a trance  of  passive  glory,  you  might  see 
In  apparition  on  the  golden  sky 
(Alas,  my  Giotto’s  background!)  the  sheep  rim 
Along  the  fine  clear  outline,  small  as  mice 
That  run  along  a witch’s  scarlet  thread. 

Not  a grand  nature.  Not  my  chesnut- woods 


AUKOKA  LEIGH. 


23 


Of  Yallombrosa,  cleaving  by  the  spurs 
To  the  precipices.  Not  my  headlong  leaps 
Of  waters,  that  cry  out  for  joy  or  fear 
In  leaping  through  the  palpitating  pines, 

Like  a white  soul  tossed  out  to  eternity 
With  thrills  of  time  upon  it.  Not  indeed 
My  multitudinous  mountains,  sitting  in 
The  magic  circle,  with  the  mutual  touch 
Electric,  panting  from  their  full  deep  hearts 
Beneath  the  influent  heavens,  and  waiting  for 
Communion  and  commission.  Italy 
Is  one  thing,  England  one. 

On  English  ground 

You  understand  the  letter, — ere  the  fall 
How  Adam  lived  in  a garden.  All  the  fields 
Are  tied  up  fast  with  hedges,  nosegay-like  ; 

The  hills  are  crumpled  plains,  the  plains  parterres, 
The  trees,  round,  woolly,  ready  to  be  clipped, 

And  if  you  seek  for  any  wilderness 
You  find,  at  best,  a park.  A nature  tamed 
And  grown  domestic  like  a bam-door  fowl, 

Which  does  not  awe  you  with  its  claws  and  beak 
Nor  tempt  you  to  an  eyrie  too  high  up, 

But  which,  in  cackling,  sets  you  thinking  of 
Your  eggs  to-morrow  at  breakfast,  in  the  pause 
Of  finer  meditation. 

Rather  say, 

A sweet  familiar  nature,  stealing  in 

As  a dog  might,  or  child,  to  touch  your  hand 

Or  pluck  your  gown,  and  humbly  mind  you  so 


24 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


Of  presence  and  affection,  excellent 
For  inner  uses,  from  the  things  without. 

I could  not  he  unthankful,  I who  was 
Entreated  thus  and  holpen.  In  the  room 
I speak  of,  ere  the  house  was  well  awake, 

And  also  after  it  was  well  asleep, 

I sate  alone,  and  drew  the  blessing  in 
Of  all  that  nature.  With  a gradual  step, 

A stir  among  the  leaves,  a breath,  a ray, 

It  came  in  softly,  while  the  angels  made 
A place  for  it  beside  me.  The  moon  came, 

And  swept  my  chamber  clean  of  foolish  thoughts. 
The  sun  came,  saying,  ‘ Shall  I lift  this  light 
Against  the  lime-tree,  and  you  will  not  look  ? 

I make  the  birds  sing — listen ! but,  for  you, 

God  never  hears  your  voice,  excepting  when 
You  lie  upon  the  bed  at  nights  and  weep.’ 

Then,  something  moved  me.  Then,  I wakened  up 
More  slowly  than  I verily  write  now, 

But  wholly,  at  last,  I wakened,  opened  wide 
The  window  and  my  soul,  and  let  the  airs 
And  out-door  sights  sweep  gradual  gospels  in, 
Regenerating  what  I was.  0 Life, 

How  oft  we  throw  it  off  and  think, — 4 Enough, 
Enough  of  life  in  so  much  ! — here’s  a cause 
For  rupture  ; — herein  we  must  break  with  Life, 

Or  be  ourselves  unworthy ; here  we  are  wronged, 
Maimed,  spoiled  for  aspiration  : farewell  Life  !’ 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


25 


And  so,  as  fro  ward  babes,  we  bide  onr  eyes 
And  think  all  ended. — Then,  Life  calls  to  us 
In  some  transformed,  apocalyptic  voice, 

Above  us,  or  below  us,  or  around : 

Perhaps  we  name  it  Nature’s  voice,  or  Love’s, 

Tricking  ourselves,  because  we  are  more  ashamed 
To  own  our  compensations  than  our  griefs  : 

Still,  Life’s  voice  ! — still,  we  make  our  peace  with  Life. 

And  I,  so  young  then,  was  not  sullen.  Soon 

I used  to  get  up  early,  just  to  sit 

And  watch  the  morning  quicken  in  the  gray, 

And  hear  the  silence  open  like  a flower 
Leaf  after  leaf, — and  stroke  with  listless  hand 
The  woodbine  through  the  window,  till  at  last 
I came  to  do  it  with  a sort  of  love, 

At  foolish  unaware  : whereat  I smiled, — 

A melancholy  smile,  to  catch  myself 
Smiling  for  joy. 

Capacity  for  joy7 

Admits  temptation.  It  seemed,  next,  worth  while 
To  dodge  the  sharp  sword  set  against  my  life  ; 

To  slip  down  stairs  through  all  the  sleepy  house, 

As  mute  as  any  dream  there,  and  escape 
As  a.  soul  from  the  body,  out  of  doors, 

Glide  through  the  shrubberies,  drop  into  the  lane, 

And  wander  on  the  hills  an  hour  or  two, 

Then  back  again  before  the  house  should  stir. 

Or  else  I sate  on  in  my  chamber  green, 


26 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


And  lived  my  life,  and  thought  my  thoughts,  and  prayed 
My  prayers  without  the  vicar ; read  my  hooks, 

Without  considering  whether  they  were  fit 
To  do  me  good.  Mark,  there.  We  get  no  good 
By  being  ungenerous,  even  to  a book, 

And  calculating  profits, — so  much  help 
By  so  much  reading.  It  is  rather  when 
We  gloriously  forget  ourselves  and  plunge 
Soul-forward,  headlong,  into  a book’s  profound, 
Impassioned  for  its  beauty  and  salt  of  truth — 

’Tis  then  we  get  the  right  good  from  a book. 

I read  much.  What  my  father  taught  before 
From  many  a volume,  Love  re-emphasised 
Upon  the  self-same  pages  : Theophrast 
Grew  tender  with  the  memory  of  his  eyes, 

And  iElian  made  mine  wet.  The  trick  of  Greek 
And  Latin,  he  had  taught  me,  as  he  would 
Have  taught  me  wrestling  or  the  game  of  fives 
If  such  he  had  known, — most  like  a shipwrecked  man 
Who  heaps  his  single  platter  with  goats’  cheese 
And  scarlet  berries  ; or  like  any  man 
Who  loves  but  one,  and  so  gives  all  at  once, 

Because  he  has  it,  rather  than  because 
He  counts  it  worthy.  Thus,  my  father  gave  ; 

And  thus,  as  did  the  women  formerly 
By  young  Achilles,  when  they  pinned  a veil 
Across  the  boy’s  audacious  front,  and  swept 
With  tuneful  laughs  the  silver-fretted  rocks, 

He  wrapt  his  little  daughter  in  his  large 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


27 


Man’s  doublet,  careless  did  it  fit  or  no. 

But,  after  I bad  read  for  memory, 

I read  for  hope.  The  path  my  father’s  foot 
Had  trod  me  out,  (which  suddenly  broke  off 
What  time  he  dropped  the  wallet  of  the  flesh 
And  passed)  alone  I carried  on,  and  set 
My  child-heart  ’gainst  the  thorny  underwood, 

To  reach  the  grassy  shelter  of  the  trees. 

Ah  babe  i’  the  wood,  without  a brother-babe  ! 

My  own  self-pity,  like  the  red-breast  bird, 

Flies  back  to  cover  all  that  past  with  leaves. 

Sublimest  danger,  over  which  none  weeps, 

When  any  young  wayfaring  soul  goes  forth 
Alone,  unconscious  of  the  perilous  road, 

The  day- sun  dazzling  in  his  limpid  eyes, 

To  thrust  his  own  way,  he  an  alien,  through 
The  world  of  books ! Ah,  you  ! — you  think  it  fine, 
You  clap  hands — ‘ A fair  day !’ — you  cheer  him  on, 
As  if  the  worst,  could  happen,  were  to  rest 
Too  long  beside  a fountain.  Yet,  behold, 

Behold  ! — the  world  of  books  is  still  the  world, 
And  worldlings  in  it  are  less  merciful 
And  more  puissant.  For  the  wicked  there 
Are  winged  like  angels ; every  knife  that  strikes 
Is  edged  from  elemental  fire  to  assail 
A spiritual  life  ; the  beautiful  seems  right 
By  force  of  beauty,  and  the  feeble  wrong 
Because  of  weakness ; power  is  justified 


28 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


Though  armed  against  Saint  Mieliael ; many  a crown 
Covers  bald  foreheads.  In  the  book-world,  true, 
There’s  no  lack,  neither,  of  God’s  saints  and  kings, 
That  shake  the  ashes  of  the  grave  aside 
From  their  calm  locks  and  undiscomfited 
Look  stedfast  truths  against  Time’s  changing  mask. 
True,  many  a prophet  teaches  in  the  roads ; 

True,  many  a seer  pulls  down  the  flaming  heavens 
Upon  his  own  head  in  strong  martyrdom 
In  order  to  light  men  a moment’s  space. 

But  stay ! — who  judges  ? — who  distinguishes 
’Twixt  Saul  and  Nahash  justly,  at  first  sight. 

And  leaves  king  Saul  precisely  at  the  sin, 

To  serve  king  David  ? who  discerns  at  once 

The  sound  of  the  trumpets,  when  the  trumpets  blow 

For  Alaric  as  well  as  Charlemagne  ? 

Who  judges  wizards,  and  can  tell  true  seers 
From  conjurors  ? the  child,  there  ? Would  you  leave 
That  child  to  wander  in  a battle-field 
And  push  his  innocent  smile  against  the  guns ; 

Or  even  in  a catacomb, — his  torch 
Grown  ragged  in  the  fluttering  air,  and  all 
The  dark  a-mutter  round  him  ? not  a child. 

I read  books  bad  and  good — some  bad  and  good 
At  once ; (good  aims  not  always  make  good  books  : 
Well-tempered  spades  turn  up  ill-smelling  soils 
In  digging  vineyards  even)  books  that  prove 
God’s  being  so  definitely,  that  man’s  doubt 
Grows  self- defined  the  other  side  the  line, 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


29 


Made  atheist  by  suggestion ; moral  books, 
Exasperating  to  license ; genial  books, 

Discounting  from  the  human  dignity ; 

And  merry  books,  which  set  you  weeping  when 
The  sun  shines, — ay,  and  melancholy  books, 

Which  make  you  laugh  that  any  one  should  weep 
In  this  disjointed  life  for  one  wrong  more. 

The  world  of  books  is  still  the  world,  I write, 

And  both  worlds  have  God’s  providence,  thank  God, 
To  keep  and  hearten  : with  some  struggle,  indeed, 
Among  the  breakers,  some  hard  swimming  through 
The  deeps — I lost  breath  in  my  soul  sometimes 
And  cried,  ‘ God  save  me  if  there ’s  any  God,’ 

But,  even  so,  God  saved  me ; and,  being  dashed 

From  error  on  to  error,  every  turn 

Still  brought  me  nearer  to  the  central  truth. 

I thought  so.  All  this  anguish  in  the  thick 
Of  men’s  opinions  . . press  and  counterpress, 

Now  up,  now  down,  now  underfoot,  and  now 
Emergent  . . all  the  best  of  it,  perhaps, 

But  throws  you  back  upon  a noble  trust 
And  use  of  your  own  instinct, — merely  proves 
Pure  reason  stronger  than  bare  inference 
At  strongest.  Try  it, — fix  against  heaven’s  wall 
The  scaling-ladders  of  school  logic— mount 
Step  by  step  ! — sight  goes  faster;  that  still  ray 
Which  strikes  out  from  you,  how,  you  cannot  tell, 
And  why,  you  know  not,  (did  you  eliminate, 


30 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


That  such  as  you  indeed  should  analyse  ?) 

Goes  straight  and  fast  as  light,  and  high  as  God. 

The  cygnet  finds  the  water,  but  the  man 
Is  born  in  ignorance  of  his  element 
And  feels  out  blind  at  first,  disorganised 
By  sin  i’  the  blood, — his  spirit-insight  dulled 
And  crossed  by  his  sensations.  Presently 
He  feels  it  quicken  in  the  dark  sometimes, 

When,  mark,  be  reverent,  be  obedient, 

For  such  dumb  motions  of  imperfect  life 
Are  oracles  of  vital  Deity 
Attesting  the  Hereafter.  Let  who  says 
4 The  soul’s  a clean  white  paper,’  rather  say, 

A palimpsest,  a prophet’s  holograph 
Defiled,  erased  and  covered  by  a monk’s, — 

The  apocalypse,  by  a Longus ! poring  on 
Which  obscene  text,  we  may  discern  perhaps 
Some  fair,  fine  trace  of  what  was  written  once, 

Some  upstroke  of  an  alpha  and  omega 
Expressing  the  old  scripture. 

Books,  books,  books ! 

I had  found  the  secret  of  a garret-room 
Piled  high  with  cases  in  my  father’s  name, 

Piled  high,  packed  large, — where,  creeping  in  and  out 
Among  the  giant  fossils  of  my  past, 

Like  some  small  nimble  mouse  between  the  ribs 
Of  a mastodon,  I nibbled  here  and  there 
At  this  or  that  box,  pulling  through  the  gap, 

In  heats  of  terror,  haste,  victorious  joy, 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


31 


The  first  book  first.  And  how  I felt  it  beat 
Under  my  pillow,  in  the  morning’s  dark, 

An  hour  before  the  sun  would  let  me  read ! 

My  books  ! At  last  because  the  time  was  ripe, 

I chanced  upon  the  poets. 

As  the  earth 

Plunges  in  fury,  when  the  internal  fires 

Have  reached  and  pricked  her  heart,  and,  throwing  flat 

The  marts  and  temples,  the  triumphal  gates 

And  towers  of  observation,  clears  herself 

To  elemental  freedom — thus,  my  soul, 

At  poetry’s  divine  first  finger-touch, 

Let  go  conventions  and  sprang  up  surprised, 

Convicted  of  the  great  eternities 
Before  two  worlds. 

What ’s  this,  Aurora  Leigh, 

You  write  so  of  the  poets,  and  not  laugh  ? 

Those  virtuous  liars,  dreamers  after  dark, 

Exaggerators  of  the  sun  and  moon, 

And  soothsayers  in  a tea-cup  ? 

I write  so 

Of  the  only  truth-tellers  now  left  to  God, 

The  only  speakers  of  essential  truth, 

Opposed  to  relative,  comparative, 

And  temporal  truths ; the  only  holders  by 

His  sun-skirts,  through  conventional  gray  glooms  ; 

The  only  teachers  who  instruct  mankind 
From  just  a shadow  on  a charnel- wall 
To  find  man’s  veritable  stature  out 
Erect,  sublime, — the  measure  of  a man. 


32 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


And  that’s  the  measure  of  an  angel,  says 

The  apostle.  Ay,  and  while  your  common  men 

Lay  telegraphs,  gauge  railroads,  reign,  reap,  dine, 

And  dust  the  flaunty  carpets  of  the  world 

For  kings  to  walk  on,  or  our  president 

The  poet  suddenly  will  catch  them  up 

With  his  voice  like  a thunder, — ‘ This  is  soul, 

This  is  life,  this  word  is  being  said  in  heaven, 

Here ’s  God  down  on  us ! what  are  you  about  ?’ 
How  all  those  workers  start  amid  their  work, 

Look  round,  look  up,  and  feel,  a moment’s  space. 
That  carpet-dusting,  though  a pretty  trade, 

Is  not  the  imperative  labour  after  all. 

My  own  best  poets,  am  I one  with  you, 

That  thus  I love  you, — or  but  one  through  love  ? 
Does  all  this  smell  of  thyme  about  my  feet 
Conclude  my  visit  to  your  holy  hill 
In  personal  presence,  or  but  testify 
The  rustling  of  your  vesture  through  my  dreams 
With  influent  odours  ? When  my  joy  and  pain, 

My  thought  and  aspiration,  like  the  stops 
Of  pipe  or  flute,  are  absolutely  dumb 
Unless  melodious,  do  you  play  on  me 
My  pipers, — and  if,  sooth,  you  did  not  blow, 

Would  no  sound  come  ? or  is  the  music  mine, 

As  a man’s  voice  or  breath  is  called  his  own, 
Inbreathed  by  the  Life-breather  ? There ’s  a doubt 
For  cloudy  seasons ! 


But  the  sun  was  high 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


S3 


When  first  I felt  my  pulses  set  themselves 
For  concord ; when  the  rhythmic  turbulence 
Of  blood  and  brain  swept  outward  upon  words, 
As  wind  upon  the  alders,  blanching  them 
By  turning  up  their  under-natures  till 
They  trembled  in  dilation.  0 delight 
And  triumph  of  the  poet,  who  would  say 
A man’s  mere  ‘ yes,’  a woman’s  common  ‘ no,’ 

A little  human  hope  of  that  or  this, 

And  says  the  word  so  that  it  bums  you  through 
With  a special  revelation,  shakes  the  heart 
Of  all  the  men  and  women  in  the  world, 

As  if  one  came  back  from  the  dead  and  spoke, 
With  eyes  too  happy,  a familiar  thing 
Become  divine  i’  the  utterance  ! while  for  him 
The  poet,  speaker,  he  expands  with  joy ; 

The  palpitating  angel  in  his  flesh 
Thrills  inly  with  consenting  fellowship 
To  those  innumerous  spirits  who  sun  themselves 
Outside  of  time. 

0 life,  0 poetry, 

— Which  means  life  in  life  ! cognisant  of  life 
Beyond  this  blood-beat,  passionate  for  truth 
Beyond  these  senses  ! — poetry,  my  life, 

My  eagle,  with  both  grappling  feet  still  hot 
From  Zeus’s  thunder,  who  hast  ravished  me 
Away  from  all  the  shepherds,  sheep,  and  dogs. 
And  set  me  in  the  Olympian  roar  and  round 
Of  luminous  faces  for  a cup-bearer, 

To  keep  the  mouths  of  all  the  godheads  moist 

D 


34 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


For  everlasting  laughters, — I myself 

Half  drunk  across  the  beaker  with  their  eyes  ! 

How  those  gods  look ! 

Enough  so,  Ganymede, 

We  shall  not  bear  above  a round  or  two. 

We  drop  the  golden  cup  at  Here’s  foot 

And  swoon  back  to  the  earth, — and  find  ourselves 

Face-down  among  the  pine-cones,  cold  with  dew, 

While  the  dogs  bark,  and  many  a shepherd  scoffs, 

4 What ’s  come  now  to  the  youth  ?’  Such  ups  and  downs 
Have  poets. 

Am  I such  indeed  ? The  name 
Is  royal,  and  to  sign  it  like  a queen, 

Is  what  I dare  not, — though  some  royal  blood 
Would  seem  to  tingle  in  me  now  and  then, 

With  sense  of  power  and  ache, — with  imposthumes 
And  manias  usual  to  the  race.  Howbeit 
I dare  not : ’tis  too  easy  to  go  mad 
And  ape  a Bourbon  in  a crown  of  straws  ; 

The  thing ’s  too  common. 

Many  fervent  souls 

Strike  rhyme  on  rhyme,  who  would  strike  steel  on  steel 
If  steel  had  offered,  in  a restless  heat 
Of  doing  something.  Many  tender  souls 
Have  strung  their  losses  on  a rhyming  thread, 

As  children,  cowslips  : — the  more  pains  they  take, 

The  work  more  withers.  Young  men,  ay,  and  maids, 
Too  often  sow  their  wild  oats  in  tame  verse, 

Before  they  sit  down  under  their  own  vine 
And  live  for  use.  Alas,  near  al*l  the  birds 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


35 


Will  sing  at  dawn, — and  yet  we  do  not  take 
The  chaffering  swallow  for  the  holy  lark. 

In  those  days,  though,  I never  analysed, 

Not  even  myself.  Analysis  comes  late. 

You  catch  a sight  of  Nature,  earliest, 

In  full  front  sun-face,  and  your  eyelids  wink 

And  drop  before  the  wonder  of ’t ; you  miss 

The  form,  through  seeing  the  light.  I lived,  those  days. 

And  wrote  because  I lived — unlicensed  else  ; 

My  heart  beat  in  my  brain.  Life’s  violent  flood 
Abolished  bounds, — and,  which  my  neighbour’s  field, 
Which  mine,  what  mattered  ? it  is  thus  in  youth  ! 

We  play  at  leap-frog  over  the  god  Term ; 

The  love  within  us  and  the  love  without 

Are  mixed,  confounded  ; if  we  are  loved  or  love, 

We  scarce  distinguish  : thus,  with  other  power  ; 

Being  acted  on  and  acting  seem  the  same  : 

In  that  first  onrush  of  life’s  chariot- wheels, 

We  know  not  if  the  forests  move  or  we. 

And  so,  like  most  young  poets,  in  a flush 
Of  individual  life  I poured  myself 
Along  the  veins  of  others,  and  achieved 
Mere  lifeless  imitations  of  live  verse, 

And  made  the  living  answer  for  the  dead, 

Profaning  nature.  ‘ Touch  not,  do  not  taste, 

Nor  handle,’ — we  ’re  too  legal,  who  write  young  : 

We  beat  the  phorminx  till  we  hurt  our  thumbs, 

As  if  still  ignorant  of  counterpoint ; 


36 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


We  call  the  Muse, — 6 0 Muse,  benignant  Muse/ — 
As  if  we  had  seen  her  purple-braided  head, 

With  the  eyes  in  it,  start  between  the  boughs 
As  often  as  a stag’s.  What  make-believe, 

With  so  much  earnest ! what  effete  results 
From  virile  efforts  ! what  cold  wire-drawn  odes, 
From  such  white  heats  ! — bucolics,  where  the  cows 
Would  scare  the  writer  if  they  splashed  the  mud 
In  lashing  off  the  flies,— didactics,  driven 
Against  the  heels  of  what  the  master  said ; 

And  counterfeiting  epics,  shrill  with  trumps 
A babe  might  blow  between  two  straining  cheeks 
Of  bubbled  rose,  to  make  his  mother  laugh ; 

And  elegiac  griefs,  and  songs  of  love, 

Like  cast-off  nosegays  picked  up  on  the  road, 

The  worse  for  being  warm  : all  these  things,  writ 
On  happy  mornings,  with  a morning  heart, 

That  leaps  for  love,  is  active  for  resolve, 

Weak  for  art  only.  Oft,  the  ancient  forms 
Will  thrill,  indeed,  in  carrying  the  young  blood. 
The  wine-skins,  now  and  then,  a little  warped, 

Will  crack  even,  as  the  new  wine  gurgles  in. 

Spare  the  old  bottles ! — spill  not  the  new  wine. 

By  Keats’s  soul,  the  man  who  never  stepped 
In  gradual  progress  like  another  man, 

But,  turning  grandly  on  his  central  self, 

Ensphered  himself  in  twenty  perfect  years 
And  died,  not  young,  (the  life  of  a long  life 
Distilled  to  a mere  drop,  falling  like  a tear 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


37 


Upon  the  world’s  cold  cheek  to  make  it  burn 
For  ever ;)  by  that  strong  excepted  soul, 

J count  it  strange  and  hard  to  understand 
That  nearly  all  young  poets  should  write  old, 
That  Pope  was  sexagenary  at  sixteen, 

And  beardless  Byron  academical, 

And  so  with  others.  It  may  be  perhaps 
Such  have  not  settled  long  and  deep  enough 
In  trance,  to  attain  to  clairvoyance, — and  still 
The  memory  mixes  with  the  vision,  spoils, 

And  works  it  turbid. 

Or  perhaps,  again, 

In  order  to  discover  the  Muse-Sphinx, 

The  melancholy  desert  must  sweep  round, 

Behind  you  as  before. — 

For  me,  I wrote 

False  poems,  like  the  rest,  and  thought  them  true 
Because  myself  was  true  in  writing  them. 

1 peradventure  have  writ  true  ones  since 
With  less  complacence. 

But  I could  not  hide 
My  quickening  inner  life  from  those  at  watch. 
They  saw  a light  at  a window  now  and  then, 
They  had  not  set  there  : who  had  set  it  there  ? 

My  father’s  sister  started  when  she  caught 
My  soul  agaze  in  my  eyes.  She  could  not  say 
I had  no  business  with  a sort  of  soul, 

But  plainly  she  objected, — and  demurred 

That  souls  were  dangerous  things  to  carry  straight 

Through  all  the  spilt  saltpetre  of  the  world. 


38 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


She  said  sometimes,  4 Aurora,  have  you  done 
Your  task  this  morning  ? have  you  read  that  book  ? 
And  are  you  ready  for  the  crochet  here  ?’ — 

As  if  she  said,  4 1 know  there ’s  something  wrong ; 

I know  I have  not  ground  you  down  enough 
To  flatten  and  bake  you  to  a wholesome  crust 
For  household  uses  and  proprieties, 

Before  the  rain  has  got  into  my  barn 

And  set  the  grains  a-sprouting.  What,  you  ’re  green 

With  out-door  impudence  ? you  almost  grow  ?’ 

To  which  I answered,  4 Would  she  hear  my  task, 

And  verify  my  abstract  of  the  book  ? 

Or  should  I sit  down  to  the  crochet  work  ? 

Was  such  her  pleasure  T Then  I sate  and  teased 
The  patient  needle  till  it  spilt  the  thread, 

Which  oozed  off  from  it  in  meandering  lace 
From  hour  to  hour.  I was  not,  therefore,  sad  ; 

My  soul  was  singing  at  a work  apart 
Behind  the  wall  of  sense,  as  safe  from  harm 
As  sings  the  lark  when  sucked  up  out  of  sight 
In  vortices  of  glory  and  blue  air. 

And  so,  through  forced  work  and  spontaneous  work, 
The  inner  life  informed  the  outer  life, 

Beduced  the  irregular  blood  to  a settled  rhythm, 

Made  cool  the  forehead  with  fresh-sprinkling  dreams, 
And,  rounding  to  the  spheric  soul  the  thin, 

Pined  body,  struck  a colour  up  the  cheeks 

Though  somewhat  faint.  I clenched  my  brows  across 

My  blue  eyes  greatening  in  the  looking-glass, 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


39 


And  said,  ‘ We  ’ll  live,  Aurora  ! we  ’ll  be  strong. 
The  dogs  are  on  us — but  we  will  not  die.’ 

Whoever  lives  true  life,  will  love  true  love. 

I learnt  to  love  that  England.  Very  oft, 

Before  the  day  was  bom,  or  otherwise 
Through  secret  windings  of  the  afternoons, 

I threw  my  hunters  off  and  plunged  myself 
Among  the  deep  hills,  as  a hunted  stag 
Will  take  the  waters,  shivering  with  the  fear 
And  passion  of  the  course.  And  when  at  last 
Escaped,  so  many  a green  slope  built  on  slope 
Betwixt  me  and  the  enemy’s  house  behind, 

I dared  to  rest,  or  wander,  in  a rest 
Made  sweeter  for  the  step  upon  the  grass, 

And  view  the  ground’s  most  gentle  dimplement, 
(As  if  God’s  finger  touched  but  did  not  press 
In  making  England)  such  an  up  and  down 
Of  verdure, — nothing  too  much  up  or  down, 

A ripple  of  land ; such  little  hills,  the  sky 
Can  stoop  to  tenderly  and  the  wheatfields  climb  ; 
Such  nooks  of  valleys  lined  with  orchises, 

Fed  full  of  noises  by  invisible  streams  ; 

And  open  pastures  where  you  scarcely  tell 
White  daisies  from  white  dew, — at  intervals 
The  mythic  oaks  and  elm-trees  standing  out 
Self-poised  upon  their  prodigy  of  shade, — 

I thought  my  father’s  land  was  worthy  too 
Of  being  my  Shakspeare’s. 


Very  oft  alone, 


40 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


Unlicensed  ; not  unfrequently  with,  leave 
To  walk  the  third  with  Romney  and  his  friend 
The  rising  painter,  Yincent  Carrington, 

Whom  men  judge  hardly  as  bee-bonneted, 

Because  he  holds  that,  paint  a body  well, 

You  paint  a soul  by  implication,  like 

The  grand  first  Master.  Pleasant  walks  ! for  if 

He  said,  4 When  I was  last  in  Italy,’ 

It  sounded  as  an  instrument  that ’s  played 
Too  far  off  for  the  tune — and  yet  it ’s  fine 
To  listen. 

Ofter  we  walked  only  two 
If  cousin  Romney  pleased  to  walk  with  me. 

We  read,  or  talked,  or  quarrelled,  as  it  chanced. 

We  were  not  lovers,  nor  even  friends  well-matched 
Say  rather,  scholars  upon  different  tracks, 

And  thinkers  disagreed,  he,  overfull 
Of  what  is,  and  I,  haply,  overbold 
For  what  might  be. 

But  then  the  thrushes  sang, 
And  shook  my  pulses  and  the  elms’  new  leaves  ; 

At  which  I turned,  and  held  my  finger  up, 

And  bade  him  mark  that,  howsoe’er  the  world 
Went  ill,  as  he  related,  certainly 
The  thrushes  still  sang  in  it.  At  the  word 
His  brow  would  soften, — and  he  bore  with  me 
In  melancholy  patience,  not  unkind, 

While  breaking  into  voluble  ecstasy 
I flattered  all  the  beauteous  country  round, 

As  poets  use,  the  skies,  the  clouds,  the  fields, 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


41 


The  happy  violets  hiding  from  the  roads 
The  primroses  run  down  to,  carrying  gold  ; 

The  tangled  hedgerows,  where  the  cows  push  out 
Impatient  horns  and  tolerant  churning  mouths 
’Twixt  dripping  ash-houghs, — hedgerows  all  alive 
With  birds  and  gnats  and  large  white  butterflies 
Which  look  as  if  the  May-flower  had  caught  life 
And  palpitated  forth  upon  the  wind  ; 

Hills,  vales,  woods,  netted  in  a silver  mist, 

Farms,  granges,  doubled  up  among  the  hills  : 

And  cattle  grazing  in  the  watered  vales, 

And  cottage-chimneys  smoking  from  the  woods, 
And  cottage-gardens  smelling  everywhere, 
Confused  with  smell  of  orchards.  ‘ See,’  I said, 

‘ And  see  ! is  God  not  with  us  on  the  earth  ? 

And  shall  we  put  Him  down  by  aught  we  do  ? 
Who  says  there  ’s  nothing  for  the  poor  and  vile 
Save  poverty  and  wickedness?  behold  !’ 

And  ankle-deep  in  English  grass  I leaped 
And  clapped  my  hands,  and  called  all  very  fair. 

In  the  beginning  when  God  called  all  good, 

Even  then  was  evil  near  us,  it  is  writ ; 

But  we  indeed  who  call  things  good  and  fair, 

The  evil  is  upon  us  while  we  speak ; 

Deliver  us  from  evil,  let  us  pray. 


( 43  ) 


SECOND  BOOK. 


Times  followed  one  another.  Came  a mom 
I stood  upon  the  brink  of  twenty  years, 

And  looked  before  and  after,  as  I stood 
Woman  and  artist, — either  incomplete, 

Both  credulous  of  completion.  There  I held 
The  whole  creation  in  my  little  cup, 

And  smiled  with  thirsty  lips  before  I drank 
t Good  health  to  you  and  me,  sweet  neighbour  mine. 
And  all  these  peoples.’ 

I was  glad,  that  day ; 

The  June  was  in  me,  with  its  multitudes 
Of  nightingales  all  singing  in  the  dark, 

And  rosebuds  reddening  where  the  calyx  split. 

I felt  so  young,  so  strong,  so  sure  of  God ! 

So  glad,  I could  not  choose  be  very  wise  ! 

And,  old  at  twenty,  was  inclined  to  pull 
My  childhood  backward  in  a childish  jest 
To  see  the  face  of ’t  once  more,  and  farewell  ! 

In  which  fantastic  mood  I bounded  forth 
At  early  morning, — would  not  wait  so  long 


44 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


As  even  to  snatch  my  bonnet  by  the  strings, 

But,  brushing  a green  trail  across  the  lawn 
With  my  gown  in  the  dew,  took  will  and  way 
Among  the  acacias  of  the  shrubberies, 

To  fly  my  fancies  in  the  open  air 
And  keep  my  birthday,  till  my  aunt  awoke 
To  stop  good  dreams.  Meanwhile  1 murmured  on 
As  honeyed  bees  keep  humming  to  themselves, 

6 The  worthiest  poets  have  remained  uncrowned 
Till  death  has  bleached  their  foreheads  to  the  bone  ; 
And  so  with  me  it  must  be  unless  I prove 
Unworthy  of  the  grand  adversity, 

And  certainly  I would  not  fail  so  much. 

What,  therefore,  if  I crown  myself  to-day 
In  sport,  not  pride,  to  learn  the  feel  of  it, 

Before  my  brows  be  numbed  as  Dante’s  own 
To  all  the  tender  pricking  of  such  leaves  ? 

Such  leaves  ! what  leaves  ?’ 


To  choose  from. 


I pulled  the  branches  down 


‘ Not  the  bay ! I choose  no  bay, 
(The  fates  deny  us  if  we  are  overbold) 

Nor  myrtle — which  means  chiefly  love ; and  love 
Is  something  awful  which  one  dares  not  touch 
So  early  o’  mornings.  This  verbena  strains 
The  point  of  passionate  fragrance  ; and  hard  by, 
This  guelder-rose,  at  far  too  slight  a beck 
Of  the  wind,  will  toss  about  her  flower-apples. 
Ah — there ’s  my  choice, — that  ivy  on  the  wall, 
That  headlong  ivy  ! not  a leaf  will  grow 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


45 


But  thinking  of  a wreath.  Large  leaves,  smooth  leaves, 
Serrated  like  my  vines,  and  half  as  green. 

I like  such  ivy,  hold  to  leap  a height 

’Twas  strong  to  climb ; as  good  to  grow  on  graves 

As  twist  about  a thyrsus  ; pretty  too, 

(And  that ’s  not  ill)  when  twisted  round  a comb.’ 

Thus  speaking  to  myself,  half  singing  it, 

Because  some  thoughts  are  fashioned  like  a bell 
To  ring  with  once  being  touched,  I drew  a wreath 
Drenched,  blinding  me  with  dew,  across  my  brow, 

And  fastening  it  behind  so,  turning  faced 
* * My  public  ! — cousin  Romney — with  a mouth 
Twice  graver  than  his  eyes. 

I stood  there  fixed, — 

My  arms  up,  like  the  caryatid,  sole 
Of  some  abolished  temple,  helplessly 
Persistent  in  a gesture  which  derides 
A former  purpose.  Yet  my  blush  was  flame, 

As  if  from  flax,  not  stone. 

‘ Aurora  Leigh, 

The  earliest  of  Auroras  !’ 

Hand  stretched  out 

I clasped,  as  shipwrecked  men  will  clasp  a hand, 
Indifferent  to  the  sort  of  palm.  The  tide 
Had  caught  me  at  my  pastime,  writing  down 
My  foolish  name  too  near  upon  the  sea 
Which  drowned  me  with  a blush  as  foolish.  4 Yon. 

My  cousin !’ 


The  smile  died  out  in  his  eyes 


46 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


And  dropped  upon  his  lips,  a cold  dead  weight, 
For  just  a moment,  4 Here ’s  a hook  I found  ! 

No  name  writ  on  it — poems,  by  the  form  ; 

Some  Greek  upon  the  margin, — lady’s  Greek 
Without  the  accents.  Eeadit?  Not  a word. 

I saw  at  once  the  thing  had  witchcraft  in  ’t, 
Whereof  the  reading  calls  up  dangerous  spirits  : 
I rather  bring  it  to  the  witch.’ 

4 My  book. 


You  found  it  ’ . . 


4 In  the  hollow  by  the  stream 
That  beech  leans  down  into — of  which  you  said 
The  Oread  in  it  has  a Naiad’s  heart 
And  pines  for  waters.’ 

‘ Thank  you.5 

4 Thanks  to  you 

My  cousin ! that  I have  seen  you  not  too  much 
Witch,  scholar,  poet,  dreamer,  and  the  rest, 

To  be  a woman  also.’ 


With  a glance 

The  smile  rose  in  his  eyes  again  and  touched 
The  ivy  on  my  forehead,  light  as  air. 

I answered  gravely,  4 Poets  needs  must  be 
Or  men  or  women — more ’s  the  pity.’ 

4Ah, 

But  men,  and  still  less  women,  happily, 

Scarce  need  be  poets.  Keep  to  the  green  wreath, 
Since  even  dreaming  of  the  stone  and  bronze 
Brings  headaches,  pretty  cousin,  and  defiles 
The  clean  white  morning  dresses.’ 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


47 


‘ So  you  judge ! 

Because  I love  tlie  beautiful  I must 

Love  pleasure  chiefly,  and  be  overcharged 

For  ease  and  whiteness ! well,  you  know  the  world, 

And  only  miss  your  cousin,  ’tis  not  much. 

But  learn  this ; I would  rather  take  my  part 
With  God’s  Dead,  who  afford  to  walk  in  white 
Yet  spread  His  glory,  than  keep  quiet  here 
And  gather  up  my  feet  from  even  a step 
For  fear  to  soil  my  gown  in  so  much  dust. 

I choose  to  walk  at  all  risks. — Here,  if  heads 
That  hold  a rhythmic  thought,  must  ache  perforce, 

For  my  part  I choose  headaches, — and  to-day’s 
My  birthday.’ 

4 Dear  Aurora,  choose  instead 
To  cure  them.  You  have  balsams.’ 

4 I perceive. 

The  headache  is  too  noble  for  my  sex. 

You  think  the  heartache  would  sound  decenter, 

Since  that ’s  the  woman’s  special,  proper  ache, 

And  altogether  tolerable,  except 
To  a woman.’ 

Saying  which,  I loosed  my  wreath, 

And  swinging  it  beside  me  as  I walked, 

Half  petulant,  half  playful,  as  we  walked, 

I sent  a sidelong  look  to  find  his  thought, — 

As  falcon  set  on  falconer’s  finger  may, 

With  sidelong  head,  and  startled,  braving  eye, 

Which  means,  4 You  ’ll  see — you  ’ll  see  ! I ’ll  soon  take 
flight, 


48 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


Yon  shall  not  hinder.’  He,  as  shaking  out 

His  hand  and  answering  4 Fly  then,’  did  not  speak, 

Except  by  such  a gesture.  Silently 

We  paced,  until,  just  coming  into  sight 

Of  the  house-windows,  he  abruptly  caught 

At  one  end  of  the  swinging  wreath,  and  said 

4 Aurora  !’  There  I stopped  short,  breath  and  all. 

4 Aurora,  let ’s  be  SQrious,  and  throw  by 
This  game  of  head  and  heart.  Life  means,  be  sure, 
Both  heart  and  head, — both  active,  both  complete, 
And  both  in  earnest.  Men  and  women  make 
The  world,  as  head  and  heart  make  human  life. 
Work  man,  work  woman,  since  there ’s  work  to  do 
In  this  beleaguered  earth,  for  head  and  heart, 

And  thought  can  never  do  the  work  of  love  : 

But  work  for  ends,  I mean  for  uses,  not 
For  such  sleek  fringes  (do  you  call  them  ends, 

Still  less  God’s  glory  ?)  as  we  sew  ourselves 

Upon  the  velvet  of  those  baldaquins 

Held  ’twixt  us  and  the  sun.  That  book  of  yours, 

I have  not  read  a page  of ; but  I toss 
A rose  up — it  falls  calyx  down,  you  see ! 

The  chances  are  that,  being  a woman,  young 
And  pure,  wdth  such  a pair  of  large,  calm  eyes, 

You  write  as  well  . . and  ill  . . upon  the  whole, 

As  other  women.  If  as  well,  what  then  ? 

If  even  a little  better,  . . still,  what  then  ? 

We  want  the  Best  in  art  now,  or  no  art. 

The  time  is  done  for  facile  settings  up 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


49 


Of  minnow  gods,  nymphs  here  and  tritons  there  ; 

The  polytheists  have  gone  out  in  God, 

That  unity  of  Bests.  No  best,  no  God ! 

And  so  with  art,  we  say.  Give  art ’s  divine, 

Direct,  indubitable,  real  as  grief, 

Or  leave  us  to  the  grief  we  grow  ourselves 
Divine  by  overcoming  with  mere  hope 
And  most  prosaic  patience.  You,  you  are  young 
As  Eve  with  nature’s  daybreak  on  her  face, 

But  this  same  world  you  are  come  to,  dearest  coz. 

Has  done  with  keeping  birthdays,  saves  her  wreaths 

To  hang  upon  her  ruins, — and  forgets 

To  rhyme  the  cry  with  which  she  still  beats  back 

Those  savage,  hungry  dogs  that  hunt  her  down 

To  the  empty  grave  of  Christ.  The  world ’s  hard  pressed  ; 

The  sweat  of  labour  in  the  early  curse 

Has  (turning  acrid  in  six  thousand  years) 

Become  the  sweat  of  torture.  Who  has  time, 

An  hour’s  time  . . think  ! — to  sit  upon  a bank 
And  hear  the  cymbal  tinkle  in  white  hands  ? 

When  Egypt ’s  slain,  I say,  let  Miriam  sing ! — 

Before — where ’s  Moses  ?’ 

‘ Ah,  exactly  that. 

Where ’s  Moses  ? — is  a Moses  to  be  found  p 
You  ’ll  seek  him  vainly  in  the  bulrushes, 

While  I in  vain  touch  cymbals.  Yet  concede, 

Such  sounding  brass  has  done  some  actual  good 
(The  application  in  a woman’s  hand, 

If  that  were  credible,  being  scarcely  spoilt,) 

In  colonising  beehives.’ 

E 


50 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


‘ There  it  is ! — 

You  play  beside  a death-bed  like  a child, 

Yet  measure  to  yourself  a prophet’s  place 
To  teach  the  living.  None  of  all  these  things, 

Can  women  understand.  You  generalise 

Oh,  nothing, — not  even  grief!  Your  quick  breathed  hearts, 

So  sympathetic  to  the  personal  pang, 

Close  on  each  separate  knife-stroke,  yielding  up 
A whole  life  at  each  wound,  incapable 
Of  deepening,  widening  a large  lap  of  life 
To  hold  the  world-full  woe.  The  human  race 
To  you  means,  such  a child,  or  such  a man, 

You  saw  one  morning  waiting  in  the  cold, 

Beside  that  gate,  perhaps.  You  gather  up 
A few  such  cases,  and  when  strong  sometimes 
Will  write  of  factories  and  of  slaves,  as  if 
Your  father  were  a negro,  and  your  son 
A spinner  in  the  mills.  All ’s  yours  and  you, 

All,  coloured  with  your  blood,  or  otherwise 
Just  nothing  to  you.  Why,  I call  you  hard 
To  general  suffering.  Here ’s  the  world  half  blind 
With  intellectual  light,  half  brutalised 
With  civilisation,  having  caught  the  plague 
In  silks  from  Tarsus,  shrieking  east  and  west 
Along  a thousand  railroads,  mad  with  pain 
And  sin  too ! . . does  one  woman  of  you  all 
(You  who  weep  easily)  grow  pale  to  see 
This  tiger  shake  his  cage  ? — does  one  of  you 
Stand  still  from  dancing,  stop  from  stringing  pearls, 
And  pine  and  die  because  of  the  great  sum 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


51 


Of  universal  anguish  ? — Show  me  a tear 
Wet  as  Cordelia’s,  in  eyes  bright  as  yours, 

Because  the  world  is  mad.  You  cannot  count, 

That  you  should  weep  for  this  account,  not  you  ! 

You  weep  for  what  you  know.  A red-haired  child 
Sick  in  a fever,  if  you  touch  him  once, 

Though  but  so  little  as  with  a finger-tip, 

Will  set  you  weeping ; but  a million  sick  . . 

You  could  as  soon  weep  for  the  rule  of  three 
Or  compound  fractions.  Therefore,  this  same  world 
Uncomprehended  by  you,  must  remain 
Uninfluenced  by  you. — Women  as  you  are, 

Mere  women,  personal  and  passionate, 

You  give  us  doating  mothers,  and  perfect  wives, 
Sublime  Madonnas,  and  enduring  saints ! 

We  get  no  Christ  from  you, — and  verily 
We  shall  not  get  a poet,  in  my  mind.’ 

4 With  which  conclusion  you  conclude’  . . 

4 But  this : 

That  you,  Aurora,  with  the  large  live  brow 
And  steady  eyelids,  cannot  condescend 
To  play  at  art,  as  children  play  at  swords, 

To  show  a pretty  spirit,  chiefly  admired 
Because  true  action  is  impossible. 

You  never  can  be  satisfied  with  praise 

Which  men  give  women  when  they  judge  a book 

Not  as  mere  work  but  as  mere  woman’s  work, 

Expressing  the  comparative  respect 

Which  means  the  absolute  scorn.  4 Oh,  excellent ! 

LIBRARY 


52 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


4 Wliat  grace,  what  facile  turns,  what  fluent  sweeps, 

4 What  delicate  discernment  . . almost  thought ! 

4 The  hook  does  honour  to  the  sex,  we  hold. 

4 Among  our  female  authors  we  make  room 
4 For  this  fair  writer,  and  congratulate 
4 The  country  that  produces  in  these  times 
4 Such  women,  competent  to  ’ . . spell.’ 

4 Stop  there, 

1 answered,  burning  through  his  thread  of  talk 
With  a quick  flame  of  emotion, — 4 You  have  read 
My  soul,  if  not  my  book,  and  argue  well 
I would  not  condescend  . . we  will  not  say 
To  such  a kind  of  praise,  (a  worthless  end 
Is  praise  of  all  kinds)  but  to  such  a use 
Of  holy  art  and  golden  life.  I am  young, 

And  peradventure  weak — you  tell  me  so — 

Through  being  a woman.  And,  for  all  the  rest, 

Take  thanks  for  justice.  I would  rather  dance 
At  fairs  on  tight-rope,  till  the  babies  dropped 
Their  gingerbread  for  joy, — than  shift  the  types 
For  tolerable  verse,  intolerable 
To  men  who  act  and  suffer.  Better  far 
Pursue  a frivolous  trade  by  serious  means, 

Than  a sublime  art  frivolously.’ 

4 You, 

Choose  nobler  work  than  either,  0 moist  eyes 
And  hurrying  lips  and  heaving  heart  I We  are  youn 
Aurora,  you  and  I.  The  world, — look  round, — 

The  world,  we  ’re  come  to  late,  is  swollen  hard 
With  perished  generations  and  their  sins : 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


Tlie  civiliser’s  spade  grinds  horribly 

On  dead  men’s  bones,  and  cannot  turn  up  soil 

That ’s  otherwise  than  fetid.  All  success 

Proves  partial  failure  ; all  advance  implies 

What ’s  left  behind ; all  triumph,  something  crushed 

At  the  chariot- wheels ; all  government,  some  wrong : 

And  rich  men  make  the  poor,  who  curse  the  rich, 

Who  agonise  together,  rich  and  poor, 

Under  and  over,  in  the  social  spasm 

And  crisis  of  the  ages.  Here ’s  an  age 

That  makes  its  own  vocation ! here  we  have  stepped 

Across  the  bounds  of  time ! here ’s  nought  to  see, 

But  just  the  rich  man  and  just  Lazarus, 

And  both  in  torments,  with  a mediate  gulph, 

Though  not  a hint  of  Abraham’s  bosom.  Who 
Being  man,  Aurora,  can  stand  calmly  by 
And  view  these  things,  and  never  tease  his  soul 
For  some  great  cure  ? No  physic  for  this  grief, 

In  all  the  earth  and  heavens  too  ?’ 

4 You  believe 

In  God,  for  your  part  p — ay  ? that  He  who  makes, 

Can  make  good  things  from  ill  things,  best  from  worst, 
As  men  plant  tulips  upon  dunghills  when 
They  wish  them  finest  ?’ 

‘ True.  A death-heat  is 
The  same  as  life-heat,  to  be  accurate, 

And  in  all  nature  is  no  death  at  all, 

As  men  account  of  death,  so  long  as  God 
Stands  witnessing  for  life  perpetually, 

By  being  just  God.  That ’s  abstract  truth,  I know, 


54 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


Philosophy,  or  sympathy  with  God : 

But  I,  I sympathise  with  man,  not  God, 

(I  think  I was  a man  for  chiefly  this) 

And  when  I stand  beside  a dying  bed, 

’T  is  death  to  me.  Observe, — it  had  not  much 
Consoled  the  race  of  mastodons  to  know, 

Before  they  went  to  fossil,  that  anon 
Their  place  would  quicken  with  the  elephant : 
They  were  not  elephants  but  mastodons ; 

And  I,  a man,  as  men  are  now  and  not 
As  men  may  be  hereafter,  feel  with  men 
In  the  agonising  present.’ 

‘ Is  it  so,’ 

I said,  ‘ my  cousin  ? is  the  world  so  bad, 

While  I hear  nothing  of  it  through  the  trees  ? 

The  world  was  always  evil, — but  so  bad  ?’ 

‘ So  bad,  Aurora.  Dear,  my  soul  is  gray 
With  poring  over  the  long  sum  of  ill ; 

So  much  for  vice,  so  much  for  discontent, 

So  much  for  the  necessities  of  power, 

So  much  for  the  connivances  of  fear, 

Coherent  in  statistical  despairs 
With  such  a total  of  distracted  life,  . . 

To  see  it  down  in  figures  on  a page, 

Plain,  silent,  clear,  as  God  sees  through  the  earth 
The  sense  of  all  the  graves, — that ’s  terrible 
For  one  who  is  not  God,  and  cannot  right 
The  wrong  he  looks  on.  May  I choose  indeed 
But  vow  away  my  years,  my  means,  my  aims, 


AUEOEA  LEIGH. 


55 


Among  the  helpers,  if  there  ’s  any  help 
In  such  a social  strait  ? The  common  blood 
That  swings  along  my  veins,  is  strong  enough 
To  draw  me  to  this  duty/ 

Then  I spoke. 

4 I have  not  stood  long  on  the  strand  of  life, 

And  these  salt  waters  have  had  scarcely  time 
To  creep  so  high  up  as  to  wet  my  feet  : 

I cannot  judge  these  tides — I shall,  perhaps. 

A woman ’s  always  younger  than  a man 
At  equal  years,  because  she  is  disallowed 
Maturing  by  the  outdoor  sun  and  air, 

And  kept  in  long-clothes  past  the  age  to  walk. 

Ah  well,  I know  you  men  judge  otherwise  ! 

You  think  a woman  ripens  as  a peach, 

In  the  cheeks,  chiefly.  Pass  it  to  me  now  ; 

I ’m  young  in  age,  and  younger  still,  I think, 

As  a woman.  But  a child  may  say  amen 
To  a bishop’s  prayer  and  feel  the  way  it  goes, 

And  I,  incapable  to  loose  the  knot 
Of  social  questions,  can  approve,  applaud 
August  compassion,  Christian  thoughts  that  shoot 
Beyond  the  vulgar  white  of  personal  aims. 

Accept  my  reverence.’ 

There  he  glowed  on  me 
With  all  his  face  and  eyes.  4 No  other  help  ?’ 

Said  he — 4 no  more  than  so  ?’ 

4 What  help  ?’  I asked. 

4 You ’d  scorn  my  help, — as  Nature’s  self,  you  say, 
Has  scorned  to  put  her  music  in  my  mouth 


56 


AURORA  liEIGH. 


Because  a woman’s.  Do  you  now  turn  round 
And  ask  for  what  a woman  cannot  give  ?’ 

4 For  wdiat  she  only  can,  I turn  and  ask,’ 

He  answered,  catching  up  my  hands  in  his, 

And  dropping  on  me  from  his  high-eaved  brow 
The  full  weight  of  his  soul, — 4 1 ask  for  love, 

And  that,  she  can  ; for  life  in  fellowship 
Through  bitter  duties — that,  I know  she  can  ; 

For  wifehood — will  she  ?’ 

4 Now,’  I said,  4 may  G 

Be  witness  ’twixt  us  two  !’  and  with  the  word, 
Meseemed  I floated  into  a sudden  light 
Above  his  stature, — 4 am  I proved  too  weak 
To  stand  alone,  yet  strong  enough  to  bear 
Such  leaners  on  my  shoulder  ? poor  to  think, 

Yet  rich  enough  to  sympathise  with  thought  ? 
Incompetent  to  sing,  as  blackbirds  can, 

Yet  competent  to  love,  like  him  ?’ 

I paused ; 

Perhaps  I darkened,  as  the  light-house  will 
That  turns  upon  the  sea.  4 It  ’s  always  so. 
Anything  does  for  a wife.’ 

4 Aurora,  dear, 

And  dearly  honoured,’ — he  pressed  in  at  once 
With  eager  utterance, — 4 you  translate  me  ill. 

I do  not  contradict  my  thought  of  you 
Which  is  most  reverent,  with  another  thought 
Found  less  so.  If  your  sex  is  weak  for  art, 

(And  I who  said  so,  did  but  honour  you 


AURORA.  LEIGH. 


57 


By  using  truth  in  courtship)  it  is  strong 
For  life  and  duty.  Place  your  fecund  heart 
In  mine,  and  let  us  blossom  for  the  world 
That  wants  love's  colour  in  the  gray  of  time. 

My  talk,  meanwhile,  is  arid  to  you,  ay, 

Since  all  my  talk  can  only  set  you  where 
You  look  down  coldly  on  the  arena-heaps 
Of  headless  bodies,  shapeless,  indistinct ! 

The  Judgment- Angel  scarce  would  find  his  way 
Through  such  a heap  of  generalised  distress 
To  the  individual  man  with  lips  and  eyes, 

Much  less  Aurora.  Ah  my  sweet,  come  down, 

And  hand  in  hand  we  ’ll  go  where  yours  shall  touch 
These  victims,  one  by  one  ! till,  one  by  one, 

The  formless,  nameless  trunk  of  every  man 
Shall  seem  to  wear  a head  with  hair  you  know, 

And  every  woman  catch  your  mother’s  face 
To  melt  you  into  passion.’ 

‘ I am  a girl/ 

I answered  slowly ; ‘ you  do  well  to  name 
My  mother’s  face.  Though  far  too  early,  alas, 

God’s  hand  did  interpose  ’twixt  it  and  me, 

I know  so  much  of  love  as  used  to  shine 
In  that  face  and  another.  Just  so  much  ; 

No  more  indeed  at  all.  I have  not  seen 
So  much  love  since,  I pray  you  pardon  me, 

As  answers  even  to  make  a marriage  with 
In  this  cold  land  of  England.  What  you  love, 

Is  not  a woman,  Eomney,  but  a cause  : 

You  want  a a helpmate,  not  a mistress,  sir. 


58 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


A wife  to  help  your  ends, — in  her  no  end  ! 

Your  cause  is  noble,  your  ends  excellent, 

But  I,  being  most  unworthy  of  these  and  that, 

Do  otherwise  conceive  of  love.  Farewell.’ 

4 Farewell,  Aurora  ? you  reject  me  thus  ? 

He  said. 

‘ Sir,  you  were  married  long  ago. 
You  have  a wife  already  whom  you  love, 

Your  social  theory.  Bless  you  both,  I say. 

For  my  part,  I am  scarcely  meek  enough 
To  be  the  handmaid  of  a lawful  spouse. 

Do  I look  a Hagar,  think  you  ? 

1 So  you  jest.’ 

4 Nay,  so,  I speak  in  earnest,’  I replied. 

4 You  treat  of  marriage  too  much  like,  at  least, 

A chief  apostle  : you  would  bear  with  you 
A wife  . . a sister  . . shall  we  speak  it  out  ? 

A sister  of  charity.’ 

4 Then,  must  it  be 

Indeed  farewell  ? And  was  I so  far  wrong 
In  hope  and  in  illusion,  when  I took 
The  woman  to  be  nobler  than  the  man, 

Yourself  the  noblest  woman,  in  the  use 
And  comprehension  of  what  love  is, — love, 

That  generates  the  likeness  of  itself 
Through  all  heroic  duties  ? so  far  wrong, 

In  saying  bluntly,  venturing  truth  on  love, 

4 Come,  human  creature,  love  and  work  with  me,’- 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


59 


Instead  of,  4 Lady,  thou  art  wondrous  fair, 

‘ And,  where  the  Graces  walk  before,  the  Muse 
4 Will  follow  at  the  lightning  of  their  eyes, 

4 And  where  the  Muse  walks,  lovers  need  to  creep : 

4 Turn  round  and  love  me,  or  I die  of  love.’  ’ 

With  quiet  indignation  I broke  in. 

4 You  misconceive  the  question  like  a man, 

Who  sees  a woman  as  the  complement 
Of  his  sex  merely.  You  forget  too  much 
That  every  creature,  female  as  the  male, 

Stands  single  in  responsible  act  and  thought 
As  also  in  birth  and  death.  Whoever  says 
To  a loyal  woman,  4 Love  and  work  with  me/ 

Will  get  fair  answers  if  the  work  and  love, 

Being  good  themselves,  are  good  for  her — the  best 
She  was  bom  for.  Women  of  a softer  mood, 
Surprised  by  men  when  scarcely  awake  to  life, 

Will  sometimes  only  hear  the  first  word,  love, 

And  catch  up  wfth  it  any  kind  of  work, 

Indifferent,  so  that  dear  love  go  with  it. 

I do  not  blame  such  women,  though,  for  love, 

They  pick  much  oakum  ; earth’s  fanatics  make 
Too  frequently  heaven’s  saints.  But  me  your  work 
Is  not  the  best  for, — nor  your  love  the  best, 

Nor  able  to  commend  the  kind  of  work 

For  love’s  sake  merely.  Ah,  you  force  me,  sir, 

To  be  over-bold  in  speaking  of  myself : 

I too  have  my  vocation, — work  to  do, 

The  heavens  and  earth  have  set  me  since  I changed 


60 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


My  father’s  face  for  theirs,  and,  though  your  world 
Were  twice  as  wretched  as  you  represent, 

Most  serious  work,  most  necessary  work 
As  any  of  the  economists’.  Reform, 

Make  trade  a Christian  possibility, 

And  individual  right  no  general  wrong ; 

Wipe  out  earth’s  furrows  of  the  Thine  and  Mine, 
And  leave  one  green  for  men  to  play  at  bowls, 
With  innings  for  them  all ! . . what  then,  indeed, 
If  mortals  are  not  greater  by  the  head 
Than  any  of  their  prosperities  ? what  then, 

Unless  the  artist  keep  up  open  roads 
Betwixt  the  seen  and  unseen, — bursting  through 
The  best  of  your  conventions  with  his  best, 

The  speakable,  imaginable  best 
God  bids  him  speak,  to  prove  what  lies  beyond 
Both  speech  and  imagination  ? A starved  man 
Exceeds  a fat  beast : we  ’ll  not  barter,  sir, 

The  beautiful  for  barley. — And,  even  so, 

I hold  you  will  not  compass  your  poor  ends 
Of  barley-feeding  and  material  ease, 

Without  a poet’s  individualism 
To  work  your  universal.  It  takes  a soul, 

To  move  a body  : it  takes  a high-souled  man, 

To  move  the  masses,  even  to  a cleaner  stye  : 

It  takes  the  ideal,  to  blow  a hair’s-breadth  off 
The  dust  of  the  actual.— Ah,  your  Fouriers  failed, 
Because  not  poets  enough  to  understand 

That  life  develops  from  within. For  me, 

Perhaps  I am  not  worthy,  as  you  say, 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


61 


Of  work  like  this  : perhaps  a woman’s  soul 
Aspires,  and  not  creates  : yet  we  aspire, 

And  yet  I ’ll  try  out  yonr  perhapses,  sir, 

And  if  I fail  . . why,  bum  me  up  my  straw 
Like  other  false  works — I ’ll  not  ask  for  grace ; 
Your  scorn  is  better,  cousin  Komney.  I 
Who  love  my  art,  would  never  wish  it  lower 
To  suit  my  stature.  I may  love  my  art. 

You  ’ll  grant  that  even  a woman  may  love  art, 
Seeing  that  to  waste  true  love  on  anything 
Is  womanly,  past  question.’ 

I retain 

The  very  last  word  which  I said  that  day, 

As  you  the  creaking  of  the  door,  years  past, 

Which  let  upon  you  such  disabling  news 
You  ever  after  have  been  graver.  He, 

His  eyes,  the  motions  in  his  silent  mouth, 

Were  fiery  points  on  which  my  words  were  caught, 
Transfixed  for  ever  in  my  memory 
For  his  sake,  not  their  own.  And  yet  I know 
I did  not  love  him  . . nor  he  me  . . that ’s  sure  . . 
And  what  I said,  is  unrepented  of, 

As  truth  is  always.  Yet  . . a princely  man  ! — 

If  hard  to  me,  heroic  for  himself ! 

He  bears  down  on  me  through  the  slanting  years, 
The  stronger  for  the  distance.  If  he  had  loved, 

Ay,  loved  me,  with  that  retributive  face,  . . 

I might  have  been  a common  woman  now 
And  happier,  less  known  and  less  left  alone, 
Perhaps  a better  woman  after  all, 


62 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


With  chubby  children  hanging  on  my  neck 
To  keep  me  low  and  wise.  Ah  me,  the  vines 
That  bear  such  fruit,  are  proud  to  stoop  with  it. 
The  palm  stands  upright  in  a realm  of  sand. 

And  I,  who  spoke  the  truth  then,  stand  upright, 
Still  worthy  of  having  spoken  out  the  truth, 

By  being  content  1 spoke  it  though  it  set 
Him  there,  me  here. — 0 woman’s  vile  remorse, 

To  hanker  after  a mere  name,  a show, 

A supposition,  a potential  love  ! 

Does  every  man  who  names  love  in  our  lives, 
Become  a power  for  that  ? is  love’s  true  thing 
So  much  best  to  us,  that  what  personates  love 
Is  next  best  ? A potential  love,  forsooth ! 

I ’m  not  so  vile.  No,  no — he  cleaves,  I think, 
This  man,  this  image, — chiefly  for  the  wrong 
And  shock  he  gave  my  life,  in  finding  me 
Precisely  where  the  devil  of  my  youth 
Had  set  me,  on  those  mountain-peaks  of  hope 
All  glittering  with  the  dawn-dew,  all  erect 
And  famished  for  the  noon, — exclaiming,  while 
I looked  for  empire  and  much  tribute,  ‘ Come, 

I have  some  worthy  work  for  thee  below. 

Come,  sweep  my  barns  and  keep  my  hospitals, 
And  I will  pay  thee  with  a current  coin 
Which  men  give  women.’ 

As  we  spoke,  the  grass 
Was  trod  in  haste  beside  us,  and  my  aunt, 

With  smile  distorted  by  the  sun, — face,  voice 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


As  much  at  issue  with  the  summer-day 
As  if  you  brought  a candle  out  of  doors, 

Broke  in  with,  ‘ Romney,  here  ! — My  child,  entreat 
Your  cousin  to  the  house,  and  have  your  talk, 

If  girls  must  talk  upon  their  birthdays.  Come.’ 

He  answered  for  me  calmly,  with  pale  lips 
That  seemed  to  motion  for  a smile  in  vain. 

4 The  talk  is  ended,  madam,  where  we  stand. 

Your  brother’s  daughter  has  dismissed  me  here ; 
And  all  my  answer  can  be  better  said 
Beneath  the  trees,  than  wrong  by  such  a word 
Your  house’s  hospitalities.  Farewell.’ 

With  that  he  vanished.  I could  hear  his  heel 
Ring  bluntly  in  the  lane,  as  down  he  leapt 
The  short  way  from  us. — Then  a measured  speech 
Withdrew  me.  4 What  means  this,  Aurora  Leigh  ? 
My  brother’s  daughter  has  dismissed  my  guests  ?’ 

The  lion  in  me  felt  the  keeper’s  voice 

Through  all  its  quivering  dewlaps  ; I was  quelled 

Before  her, — meekened  to  the  child  she  knew  : 

I prayed  her  pardon,  said,  4 1 had  little  thought 
To  give  dismissal  to  a guest  of  hers, 

In  letting  go  a friend  of  mine  who  came 
To  take  me  into  service  as  a wife, — 

No  more  than  that,  indeed.’ 

‘ No  more,  no  more  ? 
Pray  Heaven,’  she  answered,  4 that  I was  not  mad. 


64 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


I could  not  mean  to  tell  her  to  her  face 
That  Romney  Leigh  had  asked  me  for  a wife* 

And  I refused  him  ?’ 

4 Did  he  ask  ?’  I said  : 

4 I think  he  rather  stooped  to  take  me  up 

For  certain  uses  which  he  found  to  do 

For  something  called  a wife.  He  never  asked.5 

‘ What  stuff !’  she  answered ; 4 are  they  queens,  these  girls 
They  must  have  mantles,  stitched  with  twenty  silks, 
Spread  out  upon  the  ground,  before  they  ’ll  step 
One  footstep  for  the  noblest  lover  born.’ 

‘ But  I am  born/  I said  with  firmness,  4 1, 

To  walk  another  way  than  his,  dear  aunt.’ 

4 You  walk,  you  walk  ! A babe  at  thirteen  months 
Will  walk  as  well  as  you,’  she  cried  in  haste, 

4 Without  a steadying  finger.  Why,  you  child, 

God  help  you,  you  are  groping  in  the  dark, 

For  all  this  sunlight.  You  suppose,  perhaps, 

That  you,  sole  offspring  of  an  opulent  man, 

Are  rich  and  free  to  choose  a way  to  walk  ? 

You  think,  and  it ’s  a reasonable  thought, 

That  I,  beside,  being  well  to  do  in  life, 

Will  leave  my  handful  in  my  niece’s  hand 
When  death  shall  paralyse  these  fingers  ? Pray, 

Pray,  child,  albeit  I know  you  love  me  not, 

As  if  you  loved  me,  that  I may  not  die ! 

For  when  I die  and  leave  you,  out  you  go, 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


65 


(Unless  1 make  room  for  you  in  my  grave) 
Unhoused,  unfed,  my  dear,  poor  brother’s  lamb, 

(Ah  heaven, — that  pains  !) — without  a right  to  crop 
A single  blade  of  grass  beneath  these  trees, 

Or  cast  a lamb’s  small  shadow  on  the  lawn, 

Unfed,  unfolded  ! Ah,  my  brother,  here  ’s 
The  fruit  you  planted  in  your  foreign  loves  ! — 

Ay,  there ’s  the  fruit  he  planted  ! never  look 
Astonished  at  me  with  your  mother’s  eyes. 

For  it  was  they  who  set  you  where  you  are, 

An  undowered  orphan.  Child,  your  father  s choice 
Of  that  said  mother,  disinherited 
His  daughter,  his  and  hers.  Men  do  not  think 
Of  sons  and  daughters,  when  they  fall  in  love, 

So  much  more  than  of  sisters  ; otherwise 
He  would  have  paused  to  ponder  what  he  did, 

And  shrunk  before  that  clause  in  the  entail 
Excluding  offspring  by  a foreign  wife, 

(The  clause  set  up  a hundred  years  ago 

By  a Leigh  who  wedded  a French  dancing  girl 

And  had  his  heart  danced  over  in  return)  ; 

But  this  man  shrank  at  nothing,  never  thought 
Of  you,  Aurora,  any  more  than  me — 

Your  mother  must  have  been  a pretty  thing, 

For  all  the  coarse  Italian  blacks  and  browns, 

To  make  a good  man,  which  my  brother  was, 
Unchary  of  the  duties  to  his  house  ; 

But  so  it  fell  indeed.  Our  cousin  Vane, 

Vane  Leigh,  the  father  of  this  Romney,  wrote 
Directly  on  your  birth,  to  Italy, 


F 


66 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


4 I ask  your  baby  daughter  for  my  son 
In  whom  the  entail  now  merges  by  the  law. 
Betroth  her  to  us  out  of  love,  instead 
Of  colder  reasons,  and  she  shall  not  lose 
By  love  or  law  from  henceforth  ’ — so  he  wrote  ; 

A generous  cousin,  was  my  cousin  Yane. 
Bemember  how  he  drew  you  to  his  knee 
The  year  you  came  here,  just  before  he  died, 
And  hollowed  out  his  hands  to  hold  your  cheeks, 
And  wished  them  redder, — you  remember  Yane? 
And  now  his  son  who  represents  our  house 
And  holds  the  fiefs  and  manors  in  his  place, 

To  whom  reverts  my  pittance  when  I die, 
(Except  a few  books  and  a pair  of  shawls) 

The  boy  is  generous  like  him,  and  prepared 
To  carry  out  his  kindest  word  and  thought 
To  you,  Aurora.  Yes,  a fine  young  man 
Is  Romney  Leigh ; although  the  sun  of  youth 
Has  shone  too  straight  upon  his  brain,  I know. 
And  fevered  him  with  dreams  of  doing  good 
To  good-for-nothing  people.  But  a wife 
Will  put  all  right,  and  stroke  his  temples  cool 
With  healthy  touches  * . . 

I broke  in  at  that. 

I could  not  lift  my  heavy  heart  to  breathe 
Till  then,  but  then  I raised  it,  and  it  fell 
In  broken  words  like  these — 4 No  need  to  wait 
The  dream  of  doing  good  to  . . me,  at  least, 

Is  ended,  without  waiting  for  a wife 
To  cool  the  fever  for  him.  We  5ve  escaped 


AUKOKA  LEIGH. 


6 


That  danger, — thank  Heaven  for  it.’ 

‘Yon,’  she  cried 

‘ Have  got  a fever.  What,  I talk  and  talk 
An  hour  long  to  you, — I instruct  you  how 
You  cannot  eat  or  drink  or  stand  or  sit 
Or  even  die,  like  any  decent  wretch 
In  all  this  unroofed  and  unfurnished  world, 

Without  your  cousin, — and  you  still  maintain 
There ’s  room  ’twixt  him  and  you,  for  flirting  fans 
And  running  knots  in  eyebrows  ? You  must  have 
A pattern  lover  sighing  on  his  knee  ? 

You  do  not  count  enough,  a noble  heart 
(Above  book-patterns)  which  this  very  morn 
Unclosed  itself  in  two  dear  fathers’  names 
To  embrace  your  orphaned  life  ? fie,  fle  ! But  stay, 

I write  a word,  and  counteract  this  sin.’ 

She  would  have  turned  to  leave  me,  but  I clung. 

4 0 sweet  my  father’s  sister,  hear  my  word 
Before  you  write  yours.  Cousin  Yane  did  well, 

And  cousin  Bomney  well, — and  I well  too, 

In  casting  back  with  all  my  strength  and  will 
The  good  they  meant  me.  0 my  God,  my  God  ! 

God  meant  me  good,  too,  when  he  hindered  me 
From  saying  4 yes  ’ this  morning.  If  you  write 
A word,  it  shall  be  4 no.’  I say  no,  no  ! 

I tie  up  4 no  ’ upon  His  altar-horns, 

Quite  out  of  reach  of  perjury  ! At  least 

My  soul  is  not  a pauper ; I can  live 

At  least  my  soul’s  life,  without  alms  from  men ; 


G8 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


And  if  it  must  be  in  heaven  instead  of  earth, 

Let  heaven  look  to  it, — I am  not  afraid.’ 

She  seized  my  hands  with  both  hers,  strained  them  fast/ 
And  drew  her  probing  and  unscrupulous  eyes 
Eight  through  me,  body  and  heart.  ‘ Yet,  foolish  Sweet, 
You  love  this  man.  I Jve  watched  you  when  he  came, 
And  when  he  went,  and  when  we  ’ve  talked  of  him : 

I am  not  old  for  nothing ; I can  tell 

The  weather-signs  of  love  : you  love  this  man.’ 

Girls  blush  sometimes  because  they  are  alive, 

Half  wishing  they  were  dead  to  save  the  shame. 

The  sudden  blush  devours  them,  neck  and  brow  ; 

They  have  drawn  too  near  the  fire  of  life,  like  gnats, 
And  flare  up  bodily,  wings  and  all.  What  then  ? 

Who  ’s  sorry  for  a gnat  . . or  girl  ? 

I blushed. 

I feel  the  brand  upon  my  forehead  now 
Strike  hot,  sear  deep,  as  guiltless  men  may  feel 
The  felon’s  iron,  say,  and  scorn  the  mark 
Of  what  they  are  not.  Most  illogical 
Irrational  nature  of  our  womanhood, 

That  blushes  one  way,  feels  another  way, 

And  prays,  perhaps,  another  ! After  all, 

We  cannot  be  the  equal  of  the  male 
Who  rules  his  blood  a little. 

For  although 

I blushed  indeed,  as  if  I loved  the  man, 

And  her  incisive  smile,  accrediting 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


That  treason  of  false  witness  in  my  blush, 

Did  bow  me  downward  like  a swathe  of  grass 
Below  its  level  that  struck  me, — I attest 
The  conscious  skies  and  all  their  daily  suns, 

I think  I loved  him  not, — nor  then,  nor  since, 

Nor  ever.  Do  we  love  the  schoolmaster, 

Being  busy  in  the  woods  ? much  less,  being  poor, 
The  overseer  of  the  parish  ? Do  we  keep 
Our  love  to  pay  our  debts  with  ? 

White  and  cold 

I grew  next  moment.  As  my  blood  recoiled 
From  that  imputed  ignominy,  I made 
My  heart  great  with  it.  Then,  at  last,  I spoke, 
Spoke  veritable  words  but  passionate, 

Too  passionate  perhaps  . . ground  up  with  sobs 
To  shapeless  endings.  She  let  fall  my  hands 
And  took  her  smile  off,  in  sedate  disgust, 

As  peradventure  she  had  touched  a snake, — 

A dead  snake,  mind  ! — and  turning  round,  replied, 
‘ We  ’ll  leave  Italian  manners,  if  you  please. 

I think  you  had  an  English  father,  child, 

And  ought  to  find  it  possible  to  speak 
A quiet  ‘ yes  ’ or  ‘ no,’  like  English  girls, 

Without  convulsions.  In  another  month 
We  ’ll  take  another  answer — no,  or  yes.’ 

With  that,  she  left  me  in  the  garden-walk. 

I had  a father  ! yes,  but  long  ago — 

How  long  it  seemed  that  moment.  Oh,  how  far, 
How  far  and  safe,  God,  dost  thou  keep  thy  saints 


70 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


When  once  gone  from  ns  ! We  may  call  against 
The  lighted  windows  of  thy  fair  Jnne-heaven 
Where  all  the  sonls  are  happy, — and  not  one, 

Not  even  my  father,  look  from  work  or  play 
To  ask,  4 Who  is  it  that  cries  after  ns, 

Below  there,  in  the  dusk  ?’  Yet  formerly 
He  turned  his  face  upon  me  quick  enough, 

If  I said  ‘ father.’  Now  I might  cry  loud  ; 

The  little  lark  reached  higher  with  his  song 
Than  I with  crying.  Oh,  alone,  alone, — 

Not  troubling  any  in  heaven,  nor  any  on  earth, 

I stood  there  in  the  garden,  and  looked  up 
The  deaf  blue  sky  that  brings  the  roses  out 
On  such  June  mornings. 

You  who  keep  account 
Of  crisis  and  transition  in  this  life, 

Set  down  the  first  time  Nature  says  plain  4 no  ’ 
To  some  4 yes  ’ in  you,  and  walks  over  you 
In  gorgeous  sweeps  of  scorn.  We  all  begin 
By  singing  with  the  birds,  and  running  fast 
With  June-days,  hand  in  hand  : but  once,  for  all, 
The  birds  must  sing  against  us,  and  ihe  sun 
Strike  down  upon  us  like  a friend’s  sword  caught 
By  an  enemy  to  slay  us,  while  we  read 
The  dear  name  on  the  blade  which  bites  at  us  ! — 
That ’s  bitter  and  convincing : after  that, 

We  seldom  doubt  that  something  in  the  large 
Smooth#order  of  creation,  though  no  more 
Than  haply  a man’s  footstep,  has  gone  wrong. 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


I 


Some  tears  fell  down  my  cheeks,  and  then  I smiled, 

As  those  smile  who  have  no  face  in  the  world 
To  smile  back  to  them.  I had  lost  a friend 
In  Romney  Leigh  ; the  thing  was  sure — a friend, 

Who  had  looked  at  me  most  gently  now  and  then, 

And  spoken  of  my  favourite  books,  ‘ our  books,’ 

With  such  a voice  ! Well,  voice  and  look  were  now 
More  utterly  shut  out  from  me  I felt, 

Than  even  my  father’s.  Romney  now  was  turned 
To  a benefactor,  to  a generous  man, 

Who  had  tied  himself  to  marry  . . me,  instead 
Of  such  a woman,  with  low  timorous  lids 
He  lifted  with  a sudden  word  one  day, 

And  left,  perhaps,  for  my  sake. — Ah,  self-tied 
By  a contract,  male  Iphigenia  bound 
At  a fatal  Aulis  for  the  winds  to  change, 

(But  loose  him,  they  ’ll  not  change),  he  well  might  seem 
A little  cold  and  dominant  in  love  ! 

He  had  a right  to  be  dogmatical, 

This  poor,  good  Romney.  Love,  to  him,  was  made 
A simple  law-clause.  If  I married  him, 

I should  not  dare  to  call  my  soul  my  own 

Which  so  he  had  bought  and  paid  for : every  thought 

And  every  heart-beat  down  there  in  the  bill ; 

Not  one  found  honestly  deductible 

From  any  use  that  pleased  him  ! He  might  cut 

My  body  into  coins  to  give  away 

Among  his  other  paupers  ; change  my  sons, 

While  I stood  dumb  as  Griseld,  for  black  babes 
Or  piteous  foundlings  ; might  unquestioned  set 


72 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


My  right  hand  teaching  in  the  Ragged  Schools, 

My  left  hand  washing  in  the  Public  Baths, 

What  time  my  angel  of  the  Ideal  stretched 
Both  his  to  me  in  vain.  I could  not  claim 
The  poor  right  of  a mouse  in  a trap,  to  squeal, 

And  take  so  much  as  pity  from  myself. 

Farewell,  good  Romney  ! if  I loved  you  even, 

I could  but  ill  afford  to  let  you  be 

So  generous  to  me.  Farewell,  friend,  since  friend 

Betwixt  us  two,  forsooth,  must  be  a word 

So  heavily  overladen.  And,  since  help 

Must  come  to  me  from  those  who  love  me  not, 

Farewell,  all  helpers — I must  help  myself, 

And  am  alone  from  henceforth. — Then  I stooped 
And  lifted  the  soiled  garland  from  the  earth, 

And  set  it  on  my  head  as  bitterly 

As  when  the  Spanish  monarch  crowned  the  bones 

Of  his  dead  love.  So  be  it.  I preserve 

That  crown  still, — in  the  drawer  there  ! ’t  was  the  hr 

The  rest  are  like  it ; — those  Olympian  crowns, 

We  run  for,  till  we  lose  sight  of  the  sun 
In  the  dust  of  the  racing  chariots  ! 

After  that, 

Before  the  evening  fell,  I had  a note, 

Which  ran, — 4 Aurora,  sweet  Chaldean,  you  read 
My  meaning  backward  like  your  eastern  books, 

While  I am  from  the  west,  dear.  Read  me  now 
A little  plainer.  Did  you  hate  me  quite 
But  yesterday  ? I loved  you  for  my  paid  ; 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


I love  you.  If  I spoke  unteuderly 
This  morning,  my  beloved,  pardon  it  ; 

And  comprehend  me  that  I loved  you  so 
I set  you  on  the  level  of  my  soul, 

And  overwashed  you  with  the  bitter  brine 
Of  some  habitual  thoughts.  Henceforth,  my  flower, 
Be  planted  out  of  reach  of  any  such, 

And  lean  the  side  you  please,  with  all  your  leaves  ! 
Write  woman’s  verses  and  dream  woman’s  dreams  ; 
But  let  me  feel  your  perfume  in  my  home 
To  make  my  sabbath  after  working- days. 

Bloom  out  your  youth  beside  me, — be  my  wife. 

I wrote  in  answer — ‘ We  Chaldeans  discern 
Still  farther  than  we  read.  I know  your  heart, 

And  shut  it  like  the  holy  book  it  is, 

Reserved  for  mild-eyed  saints  to  pore  upon 
Betwixt  their  prayers  at  vespers.  Well,  you  ’re  right 
I did  not  surely  hate  you  yesterday  ; 

And  yet  I do  not  love  you  enough  to-day 
To  wed  you,  cousin  Romney.  Take  this  word, 

And  let  it  stop  you  as  a generous  man 

From  speaking  farther.  You  may  tease,  indeed, 

And  blow  about  my  feelings,  or  my  leaves, 

And  here ’s  my  aunt  will  help  you  with  east  winds 
And  break  a stalk,  perhaps,  tormenting  me  ; 

But  certain  flowers  grow  near  as  deep  as  trees, 

And,  cousin,  you  ’ll  not  move  my  root,  not  you, 

With  all  your  confluent  storms.  Then  let  me  grow 
Within  my  wayside  hedge,  and  pass  your  way  ! 


74 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


This  flower  has  never  as  much  to  say  to  you 

As  the  antique  tomb  which  said  to  travellers,  4 Pause/ 

4 Siste,  viator.’  ’ Ending  thus,  I signed. 

The  next  week  passed  in  silence,  so  the  next, 

And  several  after : Romney  did  not  come 
Nor  my  aunt  chide  me.  I lived  on  and  on, 

As  if  my  heart  were  kept  beneath  a glass, 

And  everybody  stood,  all  eyes  and  ears, 

To  see  and  hear  it  tick.  I could  not  sit, 

Nor  walk,  nor  take  a book,  nor  lay  it  down, 

Nor  sew  on  steadily,  nor  drop  a stitch, 

And  a sigh  with  it,  but  I felt  her  looks 

Still  cleaving  to  me,  like  the  sucking  asp 

To  Cleopatra’s  breast,  persistently 

Through  the  intermittent  pantings.  Being  observed, 

When  observation  is  not  sympathy. 

Is  just  being  tortured.  If  she  said  a word, 

A 4 thank  you,’  or  an  4 if  it  please  you,  dear,’ 

She  meant  a commination,  or,  at  best, 

An  exorcism  against  the  devildom 

Which  plainly  held  me.  So  with  all  the  house. 

Susannah  could  not  stand  and  twist  my  hair, 

Without  such  glancing  at  the  looking-glass 
To  see  my  face  there,  that  she  missed  the  plait. 

And  John, — I never  sent  my  plate  for  soup, 

Or  did  not  send  it,  but  the  foolish  John 
Resolved  the  problem,  ’twixt  his  napkined  thumbs, 
Of  what  was  signified  by  taking  soup 
Or  choosing  mackerel.  Neighbours  who  dropped  in 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


75 


On  morning  visits,  feeling  a joint  wrong, 

Smiled  admonition,  sate  uneasily, 

And  talked  with  measured,  emphasised  reserve, 

Of  parish  news,  like  doctors  to  the  sick, 

When  not  called  in, — as  if,  with  leave  to  speak, 

They  might  say  something.  Nay,  the  very  dog 
Would  watch  me  from  his  sun-patch  on  the  floor, 

In  alternation  with  the  large  black  fly 
Not  yet  in  reach  of  snapping.  So  I lived. 

A Roman  died  so ; smeared  with  honey,  teased 
By  insects,  stared  to  torture  by  the  noon : 

And  many  patient  souls  ’neath  English  roofs 
Have  died  like  Romans.  I,  in  looking  back, 

Wish  only,  now,  I had  borne  the  plague  of  all 
With  meeker  spirits  than  were  rife  at  Rome. 

For,  on  the  sixth  week,  the  dead  sea  broke  up, 

Dashed  suddenly  through  beneath  the  heel  of  Him 
Who  stands  upon  the  sea  and  earth  and  swears 
Time  shall  be  nevermore.  The  clock  struck  nine 
That  morning  too, — no  lark  was  out  of  tune, 

The  hidden  farms  among  the  hills  breathed  straight 
Their  smoke  toward  heaven,  the  lime-tree  scarcely  stirred 
Beneath  the  blue  weight  of  the  cloudless  sky, 

Though  still  the  July  air  came  floating  through 
The  woodbine  at  my  window,  in  and  out, 

With  touches  of  the  out-door  country-news 

For  a bending  forehead.  There  I sate,  and  wished 

That  morning-truce  of  God  would  last  till  eve, 


76 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


Or  longer.  4 Sleep,’  I thought,  4 late  sleepers, — sleep, 
And  spare  me  yet  the  burden  of  your  eyes.’ 

Then,  suddenly,  a single  ghastly  shriek 
Tore  upward  from  the  bottom  of  the  house. 

Like  one  who  wakens  in  a grave  and  shrieks, 

The  still  house  seemed  to  shriek  itself  alive, 

And  shudder  through  its  passages  and  stairs 
With  slam  of  doors  and  clash  of  bells. — I sprang, 

I stood  up  in  the  middle  of  the  room, 

And  there  confronted  at  my  chamber-door, 

A white  face, — shivering,  ineffectual  lips. 

4 Come,  come,’  they  tried  to  utter,  and  I went: 

As  if  a ghost  had  drawn  me  at  the  point 
Of  a fiery  finger  through  the  uneven  dark, 

I went  with  reeling  footsteps  down  the  stair, 

Nor  asked  a question. 

There  she  sate,  my  aunt, — 
Bolt  upright  in  the  chair  beside  her  bed, 

Whose  pillow  had  no  dint ! she  had  used  no  bed 
For  that  night’s  sleeping,  yet  slept  well.  My  God, 
The  dumb  derision  of  that  gray,  peaked  face 
Concluded  something  grave  against  the  sun, 

WThich  filled  the  chamber  with  its  July  burst 
When  Susan  drew  the  curtains  ignorant 
Of  who  sate  open-eyed  behind  her.  There 
She  sate  . . it  sate  . . we  said  4 she  ’ yesterday  . . 

And  held  a letter  with  unbroken  seal 
As  Susan  gave  it  to  her  hand  last  night : 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


All  niglit  she  had  held  it.  If  its  news  referred 

To  duchies  or  to  dunghills,  not  an  inch 

She ’d  budge,  ’t  was  obvious,  for  such  worthless  odds : 

Nor,  though  the  stars  were  suns  and  overbumed 

Their  spheric  limitations,  swallowing  up 

Like  wax  the  azure  spaces,  could  they  force 

Those  open  eyes  to  wink  once.  What  last  sight 

Had  left  them  blank  and  flat  so, — drawing  out 

The  faculty  of  vision  from  the  roots, 

As  nothing  more,  worth  seeing,  remained  behind  ? 

Were  those  the  eyes  that  watched  me,  worried  me  ? 
That  dogged  me  up  and  down  the  hours  and  days, 

A beaten,  breathless,  miserable  soul? 

And  did  I pray,  a half-hour  back,  but  so, 

To  escape  the  burden  of  those  eyes  . . those  eyes  ? 

* Sleep  late  ’ I said  ? — 

Why  now,  indeed,  they  sleep. 
God  answers  sharp  and  sudden  on  some  prayers, 

And  thrusts  the  thing  we  have  prayed  for  in  our  face, 
A gauntlet  with  a gift  in ’t.  Every  wish 
Is  like  a prayer,  with  God. 

I had  my  wish, 

To  read  and  meditate  the  thing  I would, 

To  fashion  all  my  life  upon  my  thought, 

And  marry  or  not  marry.  Henceforth  none 
Could  disapprove  me,  vex  me,  hamper  me. 

Full  ground-room,  in  this  desert  newly  made, 

For  Babylon  or  Balbec, — when  the  breath, 

Now  choked  with  sand,  returns  for  building  towns. 


78 


AUKOKA  LEIGH. 


The  heir  came  over  on  the  funeral  day, 

And  we  two  cousins  met  before  the  dead, 

With  two  pale  faces.  Was  it  death  or  life 

That  moved  us  ? When  the  will  was  read  and  done, 

The  official  guests  and  witnesses  withdrawn, 

We  rose  up  in  a silence  almost  hard, 

And  looked  at  one  another.  Then  I said, 

4 Farewell,  my  cousin.’ 

But  he  touched,  just  touched 
My  hatstrings  tied  for  going,  (at  the  door 
The  carriage  stood  to  take  me)  and  said  low, 

His  voice  a little  unsteady  through  his  smile, 

4 Siste,  viator.’ 

4 Is  there  time,’  I asked, 

4 In  these  last  days  of  railroads,  to  stop  short 
Like  Ctesar’s  chariot  (weighing  half  a ton) 

On  the  Appian  road  for  morals  ?’ 

4 There  is  time,’ 

He  answered  grave,  ‘ for  necessary  words, 

Inclusive,  trust  me,  of  no  epitaph 
On  man  or  act,  my  cousin.  We  have  read 
A will,  which  gives  you  all  the  personal  goods 
And  funded  monies  of  your  aunt.’ 

4 1 thai^k 

Her  memory  for  it.  With  three  hundred  pounds 
We  buy  in  England  even,  clear  standing-room 
To  stand  and  work  in.  Only  two  hours  since, 

I fancied  I was  poor.’ 

4 And,  cousin,  still 

You  ’re  richer  than  you  fancy.  The  will  says, 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


79 


Three  hundred  pounds , and  any  other  sum 
Of  which  the  said  testatrix  dies  possessed . 

I say  she  died  possessed  of  other  sums/ 

4 Dear  Romney,  need  we  chronicle  the  pence  ? 

I ’m  richer  than  I thought — that ’s  evident. 

Enough  so.’ 

‘ Listen  rather.  Yon ’ve  to  do 
With  "business  and  a cousin,’  he  resumed, 

4 And  both,  I fear,  need  patience.  Here ’s  the  fact. 
The  other  sum  (there  is  another  sum, 

Unspecified  in  any  will  which  dates 

After  possession,  yet  bequeathed  as  much 

And  clearly  as  those  said  three  hundred  pounds) 

Is  thirty  thousand.  You  will  have  it  paid 

When  ? . . where  ? My  duty  troubles  you  with  words.’ 

He  struck  the  iron  when  the  bar  was  hot ; 

No  wonder  if  my  eyes  sent  out  some  sparks. 

4 Pause  there ! I thank  you.  You  are  delicate 
In  glosing  gifts  ; — but  I,  who  share  your  blood, 

Am  rather  made  for  giving,  like  yourself, 

Than  taking,  like  your  pensioners.  Farewell.’ 

He  stopped  me  with  a gesture  of  calm  pride. 
c A Leigh,’  he  said,  4 gives  largesse  and  gives  love, 

But  gloses  never  : if  a Leigh  could  glose, 

He  would  not  do  it,  moreover,  to  a Leigh, 

With  blood  trained  up  along  nine  centuries 
To  hound  and  hate  a lie  from  eyes  like  yours. 


80 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


And  now  we  ’ll  make  the  rest  as  clear ; your  aunt 
Possessed  these  moneys.’ 

‘ You  will  make  it  clear, 
My  cousin,  as  the  honour  of  us  both, 

Or  one  of  us  speaks  vainly ! that ’s  not  I. 

My  aunt  possessed  this  sum, — inherited 

From  whom,  and  when  ? bring  documents,  prove  dates. 

‘ Why  now  indeed  you  throw  your  bonnet  off 
As  if  you  had  time  left  for  a logarithm  ! 

The  faith ’s  the  want.  Dear  cousin,  give  me  faith, 

And  you  shall  walk  this  road  with  silken  shoes, 

As  clean  as  any  lady  of  our  house 
Supposed  the  proudest.  Oh,  I comprehend 
The  whole  position  from  your  point  of  sight. 

I oust  you  from  your  father’s  halls  and  lands 
And  make  you  poor  by  getting  rich— that ’s  law : 
Considering  which,  in  common  circumstance. 

You  would  not  scruple  to  accept  from  me 
Some  compensation,  some  sufficiency 
Of  income — that  were  justice  ; but,  alas, 

I love  you, — that ’s  mere  nature  ; you  reject 
My  love, — that ’s  nature  also ; and  at  once, 

You  cannot,  from  a suitor  disallowed, 

A hand  thrown  back  as  mine  is,  into  yours 
Eeceive  a doit,  a farthing, — not  for  the  world  ‘ 

That ’s  woman’s  etiquette,  and  obviously 
Exceeds  the  claim  of  nature,  law,  and  right, 
Unanswerable  to  all.  I grant,  you  see, 

The  case  as  you  conceive  it, — leave  you  room 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


81 


To  sweep  your  ample  skirts  of  womanhood, 

While,  standing  humbly  squeezed  against  the  wall, 
I own  myself  excluded  from  being  just, 

Restrained  from  paying  indubitable  debts, 

Because  denied  from  giving  you  my  soul. 

That ’s  my  misfortune ! — I submit  to  it 
As  if,  in  some  more  reasonable  age, 

’T  would  not  be  less  inevitable.  Enough. 

You  ’ll  trust  me,  cousin,  as  a gentleman, 

To  keep  your  honour,  as  you  count  it,  pure, 

Your  scruples  (just  as  if  I thought  them  wise) 

Safe  and  inviolate  from  gifts  of  mine.’ 

I answered  mild  hut  earnest.  ‘ I believe 
In  no  one’s  honour  which  another  keeps, 

Nor  man’s  nor  woman’s.  As  I keep,  myself, 

My  truth  and  my  religion,  I depute 
No  father,  though  I had  one  this  side  death, 

Nor  brother,  though  I had  twenty,  much  less  you, 
Though  twice  my  cousin,  and  once  Romney  Leigh, 
To  keep  my  honour  pure.  You  face,  to-day, 

A man  who  wants  instruction,  mark  me,  not 
A woman  who  wants  protection.  As  to  a man, 
Show  manhood,  speak  out  plainly,  he  precise 
With  facts  and  dates.  My  aunt  inherited 
This  sum,  you  say — ’ 

‘ I said  she  died  possessed 

Of  this,  dear  cousin.’ 

‘ Not  by  heritage. 

Thank  you  : we  ’re  getting  to  the  facts  at  last. 

G 


82 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


Perhaps  she  played  at  commerce  with  a ship 
Which  came  in  heavy  with  Australian  gold  ? 

Or  touched  a lottery  with  her  finger-end, 

Which  tumbled  on  a sudden  into  her  lap 
Some  old  Ehine  tower  or  principality  ? 

Perhaps  she  had  to  do  with  a marine 

Sub-transatlantic  railroad,  which  pre-pays 

As  well  as  pre-supposes  ? or  perhaps 

Some  stale  ancestral  debt  was  after-paid 

By  a hundred  years,  and  took  her  by  surprise  ? — 

You  shake  your  head  my  cousin  ; I guess  ill.4 5 

4 You  need  not  guess,  Aurora,  nor  deride  ; 

The  truth  is  not  afraid  of  hurting  you. 

You  ’ll  find  no  cause,  in  all  your  scruples,  why 
Your  aunt  should  cavil  at  a deed  of  gift 
’Twixt  her  and  me.5 

4 1 thought  so — ah  ! a gift.’ 

4 You  naturally  thought  so,5  he  resumed. 

4 A very  natural  gift.5 

4 A gift,  a gift ! 

Her  individual  life  being  stranded  high 
Above  all  want,  approaching  opulence, 

Too  haughty  was  she  to  accept  a gift 
Without  some  ultimate  aim : ah,  ah,  I see, — 

A gift  intended  plainly  for  her  heirs. 

And  so  accepted  . . if  accepted  . . ah, 

Indeed  that  might  be ; I am  snared  perhaps 
J ust  so.  But,  cousin,  shall  I pardon  you, 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


83 


If  thus  you  have  caught  me  with  a cruel  springe  ? 

He  answered  gently,  £ Need  you  tremble  and  pant 
Like  a netted  lioness  ? is ’t  my  fault,  mine, 

That  you  ’re  a grand  wild  creature  of  the  woods 
And  hate  the  stall  built  for  you  ? Any  way, 

Though  triply  netted,  need  you  glare  at  me  ? 

I do  not  hold  the  cords  of  such  a net ; 

You  ’re  free  from  me,  Aurora!’ 

‘ Now  may  God 

Deliver  me  from  this  strait ! This  gift  of  yours 
Was  tendered  . . when  ? accepted  . . when  ?’  I asked. 

4 A month  . . a fortnight  since  ? Six  weeks  ago 
It  was  not  tendered  ; by  a word  she  dropped 
I know  it  was  not  tendered  nor  received. 

When  was  it  ? bring  your  dates.’ 

4 What  matters  when  ? 
A half-hour  ere  she  died,  or  a half-year, 

Secured  the  gift,  maintains  the  heritage 
Inviolable  with  law.  As  easy  pluck 
The  golden  stars  from  heaven’s  embroidered  stole 
To  pin  them  on  the  gray  side  of  this  earth, 

As  make  you  poor  again,  thank  God.’ 

4 Not  poor 

Nor  clean  again  from  henceforth,  you  thank  God  ? 

Well,  sir — I ask  you — I insist  at  need, — 

Vouchsafe  the  special  date,  the  special  date.’ 

4 The  day  before  her  death-day,’  he  replied, 

4 The  gift  was  in  her  hands.  We  ’ll  find  that  deed, 


84 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


And  certify  that  date  to  yon.’ 

As  one 

Who  has  climbed  a mountain-height  and  carried  up 
His  own  heart  climbing,  panting  in  his  throat 
With  the  toil  of  the  ascent,  takes  breath  at  last, 
Looks  back  in  triumph — so  I stood  and  looked. 

‘ Dear  cousin  Eomney,  we  have  reached  the  top 
Of  this  steep  question,  and  may  rest,  I think. 

But  first, — I pray  you  pardon,  that  the  shock 
And  surge  of  natural  feeling  and  event 
Has  made  me  oblivious  of  acquainting  you 
That  this,  this  letter,  (unread,  mark,  still  sealed) 
Was  found  enfolded  in  the  poor  dead  hand  : 

That  spirit  of  hers  had  gone  beyond  the  address, 
Which  could  not  find  her  though  you  wrote  it  clear, 
I know  your  writing,  Eomney, — recognise 
The  open-hearted  A , the  liberal  sweep 
Of  the  G.  Now  listen, — let  us  understand  : 

You  will  not  find  that  famous  deed  of  gift, 

Unless  you  find  it  in  the  letter  here, 

Which,  not  being  mine,  I give  you  back. — Eefuse 
To  take  the  letter  ? well  then — you  and  I, 

As  writer  and  as  heiress,  open  it 

Together,  by  your  leave. Exactly  so  : 

The  words  in  which  the  noble  offering  is  made, 

Are  nobler  still,  my  cousin ; and,  1 own, 

The  proudest  and  most  delicate  heart  alive, 
Distracted  from  the  measure  of  the  gift 
By  such  a grace  in  giving,  might  accept 
Your  largesse  without  thinking  any  more 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


85 


Of  the  burthen  of  it,  than  King  Solomon 
Considered,  when  he  wore  his  holy  ring 
Charactered  over  with  the  ineffable  spell, 

How  many  carats  of  fine  gold  made  up 
Its  money- value  : so,  Leigh  gives  to  Leigh ! 

Or  rather,  might  have  given,  observe, — for  that ’s 
The  point  we  come  to.  Here  ’s  a proof  of  gift, 

But  here ’s  no  proof,  sir,  of  acceptancy, 

But  rather,  disproof.  Death’s  black  dust,  being  blown, 
Infiltrated  through  every  secret  fold 
Of  this  sealed  letter  by  a puff  of  fate, 

Dried  up  for  ever  the  fresh- written  ink, 

Annulled  the  gift,  disutilised  the  grace, 

And  left  these  fragments.’ 

As  I spoke,  I tore 

The  paper  up  and  down,  and  down  and  up 
And  crosswise,  till  it  fluttered  from  my  hands, 

As  forest-leaves,  stripped  suddenly  and  rapt 
By  a whirlwind  on  Yaldarno,  drop  again, 

Drop  slow,  and  strew  the  melancholy  ground 
Before  the  amazed  hills  . . . why,  so,  indeed, 

I ’m  writing  like  a poet,  somewhat  large 
In  the  type  of  the  image,  and  exaggerate 
A small  thing  with  a great  thing,  topping  it  : — 

But  then  I ’m  thinking  how  his  eyes  looked,  his, 

With  what  despondent  and  surprised  reproach  ! 

I think  the  tears  were  in  them  as  he  looked  ; 

I think  the  manly  mouth  just  trembled.  Then 
He  broke  the  silence. 


‘ I may  ask,  perhaps. 


86 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


Although  no  stranger  . . only  Eomney  Leigh, 
Which  means  still  less  . . than  Vincent  Carrington, 
Your  plans  in  going  hence,  and  where  yon  go. 

This  cannot  he  a secret.’ 


‘ All  my  life 

Is  open  to  yon,  consin.  I go  hence 
To  London,  to  the  gathering-place  of  sonls, 

To  live  mine  straight  ont,  vocally,  in  hooks ; 
Harmonionsly  for  others,  if  indeed 
A woman’s  sonl,  like  man’s,  he  wide  enongh 
To  carry  the  whole  octave  (that ’s  to  prove) 

Or,  if  I fail,  still  pnrely  for  myself. 

Pray  God  he  with  me,  Komney.’ 

‘ Ah,  poor  child, 

Who  fight  against  the  mother’s  ’tiring  hand, 

And  choose  the  headsman’s  ! May  God  change  his  world 
Por  yonr  sake,  sweet,  and  make  it  mild  as  heaven, 

And  jnster  than  I have  fonnd  yon.’ 


Bnt  I paused. 


‘ And  yon,  my  consin  ?’ — 

‘ I,’  he  said, — ‘ yon  ask  ? 

Yon  care  to  ask?  Well,  girls  have  curious  minds 
And  fain  wonld  know  the  end  of  everything, 

Of  consins  therefore  with  the  rest.  Por  me, 

Anrora,  I ’ve  my  work  ; yon  know  my  work  ; 

And,  having  missed  this  year  some  personal  hope, 

I mnst  beware  the  rather  that  I miss 
No  reasonable  duty.  While  yon  sing 
Yonr  happy  pastorals  of  the  meads  and  trees, 
Bethink  yon  that  I go  to  impress  and  prove 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


87 


On  stifled  brains  and  deafened  ears,  stunned  deaf, 
Crushed  dull  with  grief,  that  nature  sings  itself, 
And  needs  no  mediate  poet,  lute  or  voice, 

To  make  it  vocal.  While  yon  ask  of  men 
Yonr  audience,  I may  get  their  leave  perhaps 
For  hungry  orphans  to  say  audibly 
4 We  ’re  hungry,  see,’ — for  beaten  and  bullied  wives 
To  hold  their  unweaned  babies  up  in  sight, 

Whom  orphanage  would  better,  and  for  all 
To  speak  and  claim  their  portion  . . by  no  means 
Of  the  soil,  . . but  of  the  sweat  in  tilling  it ; 

Since  this  is  now-a-days  turned  privilege, 

To  have  only  God’s  curse  on  us,  and  not  man’s. 

Such  work  I have  for  doing,  elbow-deep 
In  social  problems, — as  you  tie  your  rhymes, 

To  draw  my  uses  to  cohere  with  needs 

And  bring  the  uneven  world  back  to  its  round, 

Or,  failing  so  much,  fill  up,  bridge  at  least 
To  smoother  issues  some  abysmal  cracks 
And  feuds  of  earth,  intestine  heats  have  made 
To  keep  . men  separate, — using  sorry  shifts 
Of  hospitals,  almshouses,  infant  schools, 

And  other  practical  stuff  of  partial  good 
You  lovers  of  the  beautiful  and  whole 
Despise  by  system.’ 

‘ / despise  ? The  scorn 
Is  yours,  my  cousin.  Poets  become  such 
Through  scorning  nothing.  You  decry  them  for 
The  good  of  beauty  sung  and  taught  by  them, 

While  they  respect  your  practical  partial  good 


88 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


As  being  a part  of  beauty’s  self.  Adieu  ! 

When  God  helps  all  the  workers  for  his  world, 
The  singers  shall  have  help  of  Him,  not  last.’ 

He  smiled  as  men  smile  when  they  will  not  speak 
Because  of  something  bitter  in  the  thought ; 

And  still  I feel  his  melancholy  eyes 

Look  judgment  on  me.  It  is  seven  years  since  : 

I know  not  if ’t  was  pity  or ’t  was  scorn 
Has  made  them  so  far-reaching  : judge  it  ye 
Who  have  had  to  do  with  pity  more  than  love 
And  scorn  than  hatred.  I am  used,  since  then, 

To  other  ways,  from  equal  men.  But  so, 

Even  so,  we  let  go  hands,  my  cousin  and  I, 

And,  in  between  us,  rushed  the  torrent- world 
To  blanch  our  faces  like  divided  rocks, 

And  bar  for  ever  mutual  sight  and  touch 
Except  through  swirl  of  spray  and  all  that  roar. 


( 89  ) 


THIRD  BOOK. 


‘ To-day  thou  girdest  up  thy  loins  thyself 
And  goest  where  thou  wouldest : presently 
Others  shall  gird  thee,’  said  the  Lord,  ‘ to  go 
Where  thou  would’st  not.’  He  spoke  to  Peter  thus, 
To  signify  the  death  which  he  should  die 
When  crucified  head  downward. 

If  He  spoke 

To  Peter  then,  He  speaks  to  us  the  same  ; 

The  word  suits  many  different  martyrdoms, 

And  signifies  a multiform  of  death, 

Although  we  scarcely  die  apostles,  we, 

And  have  mislaid  the  keys  of  heaven  and  earth. 

For ’t  is  not  in  mere  death  that  men  die  most, 

And,  after  our  first  girding  of  the  loins 
In  youth’s  fine  linen  and  fair  broidery 
To  run  up  hill  and  meet  the  rising,  sun, 

We  are  apt  to  sit  tired,  patient  as  a fool, 

While  others  gird  us  with  the  violent  bands 
Of  social  figments,  feints,  and  formalisms, 


90 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


Be  versing  our  straight  nature,  lifting  up 

Our  base  needs,  keeping  down  our  lofty  thoughts, 

Head  downward  on  the  cross-sticks  of  the  world. 

Yet  He  can  pluck  us  from  that  shameful  cross. 

God,  set  our  feet  low  and  our  forehead  high, 

And  show  us  how  a man  was  made  to  walk ! 

Leave  the  lamp,  Susan,  and  go  up  to  bed. 

The  room  does  very  well ; I have  to  write 
Beyond  the  stroke  of  midnight.  Get  away  ; 

Your  steps,  for  ever  buzzing  in  the  room, 

Tease  me  like  gnats.  Ah,  letters  ! throw  them  down 
At  once,  as  I must  have  them,  to  be  sure, 

Whether  I bid  you  never  bring  me  such 
At  such  an  hour,  or  bid  you.  No  excuse  ; 

You  choose  to  bring  them,  as  I choose  perhaps 
To  throw  them  in  the  fire.  Now  get  to  bed, 

And  dream,  if  possible,  I am  not  cross. 

W7hy  what  a pettish,  petty  thing  I grow,— 

A mere,  mere  woman,  a mere  flaccid  nerve, 

A kerchief  left  out  all  night  in  the  rain, 

Turned  soft  so, — overtasked  and  overstrained 
And  overlived  in  this  close  London  life ! 

And  yet  I should  be  stronger. 

Never  burn 

Your  letters,  poor  Aurora  ! for  they  stare 
With  red  seals  from  the  table,  saying  each, 

4 Here ’s  something  that  you  know  not.’  Out  alas, 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


91 


’T  is  scarcely  that  the  world ’s  more  good  and  wise 
Or  even  straighter  and  more  consequent 
Since  yesterday  at  this  time — yet,  again, 

If  but  one  angel  spoke  from  Ararat 
I should  be  very  sorry  not  to  hear : 

So  open  all  the  letters ! let  me  read. 

Blanche  Ord,  the  writer  in  the  ‘ Lady’s  Fan/ 
Bequests  my  judgment  on  . . that,  afterwards. 

Kate  Ward  desires  the  model  of  my  cloak, 

And  signs,  ‘ Elisha  to  you.’  Pringle  Sharpe 
Presents  his  work  on  ‘ Social  Conduct,’  craves 
A little  money  for  his  pressing  debts  . . 

From  me,  who  scarce  have  money  for  my  needs ; 
Art’s  fiery  chariot  which  we  journey  in 
Being  apt  to  singe  our  singing-robes  to  holes 
Although  you  ask  me  for  my  cloak,  Kate  Ward ! 
Here ’s  Kudgely  knows  it, — editor  and  scribe ; 

He ’s  ‘ forced  to  marry  where  his  heart  is  not, 
Because  the  purse  lacks  where  he  lost  his  heart.’ 

Ah, lost  it  because  no  one  picked  it  up  ; 

That ’s  really  loss,— (and  passable  impudence.) 

My  critic  Hammond  flatters  prettily, 

And  wants  another  volume  like  the  last. 

My  critic  Belfair  wants  another  book 
Entirely  different,  which  will  sell,  (and  live  ?) 

A striking  book,  yet  not  a startling  book, 

The  public  blames  originalities, 

(You  must  not  pump  spring- water  unawares 
Upon  a gracious  public  full  of  nerves  :) 

Good  things,  not  subtle,  new  yet  orthodox, 


92 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


As  easy  reading  as  the  dog-eared  page 
That ’s  fingered  by  said  public  fifty  years, 

Since  first  taught  spelling  by  its  grandmother, 

And  yet  a revelation  in  some  sort : 

That ’s  hard,  my  critic  Belfair.  So — what  next  P 
My  critic  Stokes  objects  to  abstract  thoughts ; 

‘ Call  a man,  John,  a woman,  Joan,’  says  he, 

‘ And  do  not  prate  so  of  humanities 
Whereat  I call  my  critic  simply,  Stokes. 

My  critic  Jobson  recommends  more  mirth 
Because  a cheerful  genius  suits  the  times, 

And  all  true  poets  laugh  unquenchably 
Like  Shakspeare  and  the  gods.  That ’s  very  hard. 
The  gods  may  laugh,  and  Shakspeare  ; Dante  smiled 
With  such  a needy  heart  on  two  pale  lips 
We  cry,  ‘ Weep  rather,  Dante.’  Poems  are 
Men,  if  true  poems : and  who  dares  exclaim 
At  any  man’s  door,  ‘ Here,  ’t  is  understood 
The  thunder  fell  last  week  and  killed  a wife 
And  scared  a sickly  husband — what  of  that  ? 

Get  up,  be  merry,  shout  and  clap  your  hands, 
Because  a cheerful  genius  suits  the  times — ’ ? 

None  says  so  to  the  man,  and  why  indeed 
Should  any  to  the  poem  ? A ninth  seal ; 

The  apocalypse  is  drawing  to  a close. 

Ha, — this  from  Vincent  Carrington, — 4 Dear  friend, 
I want  good  counsel.  Will  you  lend  me  wings 
To  raise  me  to  the  subject,  in  a sketch 
I ’ll  bring  to-morrow — may  I ? at  eleven  ? 

A poet ’s  only  born  to  turn  to  use  : 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


93 


So  save  you ! for  the  world  . . and  Carrington.’ 

‘ (Writ  after.)  Have  you  heard  of  Romney  Leigh, 
Beyond  what ’s  said  of  him  in  newspapers, 

His  phalansteries  there,  his  speeches  here, 

His  pamphlets,  pleas,  and  statements,  everywhere  ? 

He  dropped  me  long  ago,  but  no  one  drops 

A golden  apple — though  indeed  one  day 

You  hinted  that,  but  jested.  Well,  at  least 

You  know  Lord  Howe  who  sees  him  . . whom  he  sees 

And  you  see  and  I hate  to  see, — for  Howe 

Stands  high  upon  the  brink  of  theories, 

Observes  the  swimmers  and  cries  4 Very  fine,’ 

But  keeps  dry  linen  equally, — unlike 

That  gallant  breaster,  Romney.  Strange  it  is, 

Such  sudden  madness  seizing  a yonng  man 
To  make  earth  over  again, — while  I ’m  content 
To  make  the  pictures.  Let  me  bring  the  sketch. 

A tiptoe  Danae,  overbold  and  hot, 

Both  arms  a-flame  to  meet  her  wishing  Jove 
Halfway,  and  burn  him  faster  down  ; the  face 
And  breasts  upturned  and  straining,  the  loose  locks 
All  glowing  with  the  anticipated  gold. 

Or  here ’s  another  on  the  self-same  theme. 

She  lies  here — flat  upon  her  prison-floor, 

The  long  hair  swathed  about  her  to  the  heel 
Like  wet  sea- weed.  You  dimly  see  her  through 
The  glittering  haze  of  that  prodigious  rain, 

Half  blotted  out  of  nature  by  a love 

As  heavy  as  fate.  I ’ll  bring  you  either  sketch. 

I think,  myself,  the  second  indicates 


94 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


More  passion.’ 

Surely.  Self  is  put  away, 

And  calm  with  abdication.  She  is  J ove, 

And  no  more  Danae — greater  thus.  Perhaps 
The  painter  symbolises  unaware 
Two  states  of  the  recipient  artist-soul, 

One,  forward,  personal,  wanting  reverence, 

Because  aspiring  only.  We  ’ll  be  calm, 

And  know  that,  when  indeed  our  Joves  come  down, 
We  all  turn  stiller  than  we  have  ever  been. 

Kind  Vincent  Carrington.  I ’ll  let  him  come. 

He  talks  of  Florence, — and  may  say  a word 
Of  something  as  it  chanced  seven  years  ago, 

A hedgehog  in  the  path,  or  a lame  bird, 

In  those  green  country  walks,  in  that  good  time 
When  certainly  I was  so  miserable  . . 

I seem  to  have  missed  a blessing  ever  since. 

The  music  soars  within  the  little  lark, 

And  the  lark  soars.  It  is  not  thus  with  men. 

We  do  not  make  our  places  with  our  strains, — 
Content,  while  they  rise,  to  remain  behind 
Alone  on  earth  instead  of  so  in  heaven. 

No  matter  ; I bear  on  my  broken  tale. 

When  Bomney  Leigh  and  I had  parted  thus, 

I took  a chamber  up  three  flights  of  stairs 
Not  far  from  being  as  steep  as  some  larks  climb, 
And  there,  in  a certain  house  in  Kensington, 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


95 


Three  years  I lived  and  worked.  Get  leave  to  work 
In  this  world — ’t  is  the  best  yon  get  at  all ; 

For  God,  in  cursing,  gives  us  better  gifts 

Than  men  in  benediction.  God  says,  ‘ Sweat 

For  foreheads,’  men  say  4 crowns,’  and  so  we  are  crowned, 

Ay,  gashed  by  some  tormenting  circle  of  steel 

Which  snaps  with  a secret  spring.  Get  work,  get  work  ; 

Be  sure  ’t  is  better  than  what  you  work  to  get. 

Serene  and  unafraid  of  solitude 

I worked  the  short  days  out, — and  watched  the  sun 

On  lurid  morns  or  monstrous  afternoons 

(Like  some  Druidic  idol’s  fiery  brass 

With  fixed  unflickering  outline  of  dead  heat, 

From  which  the  blood  of  wretches  pent  inside 
Seems  oozing  forth  to  incarnadine  the  air) 

Push  out  through  fog  with  his  dilated  disk, 

And  startle  the  slant  roofs  and  chimney-pots 
With  splashes  of  fierce  colour.  Or  I saw 
Fog  only,  the  great  tawny  weltering  fog, 

Involve  the  passive  city,  strangle  it 
Alive,  and  draw  it  off  into  the  void, 

Spires,  bridges,  streets,  and  squares,  as  if  a spunge 
Had  wiped  out  London, — or  as  noon  and  night 
Had  clapped  together  and  utterly  struck  out 
The  intermediate  time,  undoing  themselves 
In  the  act.  Your  city  poets  see  such  things 
N ot  despicable.  Mountains  of  the  south, 

When  drunk  and  mad  with  elemental  wines 
They  rend  the  seamless  mist  and  stand  up  bare, 


96 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


Make  fewer  singers,  haply.  No  one  sings, 
Descending  Sinai  : on  Parnassus-mount 
You  take  a mule  to  climb  and  not  a muse 
Except  in  fable  and  figure  : forests  chant 
Their  anthems  to  themselves,  and  leave  you  dumb. 
But  sit  in  London  at  the  day’s  decline, 

And  view  the  city  perish  in  the  mist 

Like  Pharaoh’s  armaments  in  the  deep  Eed  Sea, 

The  chariots,  horseman,  footmen,  all  the  host, 

Sucked  down  and  choked  to  silence — then,  surprised 
By  a sudden  sense  of  vision  and  of  tune, 

You  feel  as  conquerors  though  you  did  not  fight, 

And  you  and  Israel’s  other  singing  girls, 

Ay,  Miriam  with  them,  sing  the  song  you  choose. 

I worked  with  patience,  which  means  almost  power : 
I did  some  excellent  things  indifferently, 

Some  bad  things  excellently.  Both  were  praised, 
The  latter  loudest.  And  by  such  a time 
That  I myself  had  set  them  down  as  sins 
Scarce  worth  the  price  of  sackcloth,  week  by  week 
Arrived  some  letter  through  the  sedulous  post, 

Like  these  I ’ve  read,  and  yet  dissimilar, 

With  pretty  maiden  seals,— initials  twined 
Of  lilies,  or  a heart  marked  Emily 
(Convicting  Emily  of  being  all  heart)  ; 

Or  rarer  tokens  from  young  bachelors, 

Who  wrote  from  college  with  the  same  goosequill, 
Suppose,  they  had  just  been  plucked  of,  and  a snatch 
From  Horace,  ‘ Collegisse  juvat,’  set 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


97 


Upon  the  first  page.  Many  a letter,  signed 
Or  unsigned,  showing  the  writers  at  eighteen 
Had  lived  too  long,  although  a muse  should  help 
Their  dawn  by  holding  candles, — compliments 
To  smile  or  sigh  at.  Such  could  pass  with  me 
No  more  than  coins  from  Moscow  circulate 
At  Paris  : would  ten  roubles  buy  a tag 
Of  ribbon  on  the  boulevard,  worth  a sou  ? 

I smiled  that  all  this  youth  should  love  me, — sighed 
That  such  a love  could  scarcely  raise  them  up 
To  love  what  was  more  worthy  than  myself ; 

Then  sighed  again,  again,  less  generously, 

To  think  the  very  love  they  lavished  so, 

Proved  me  inferior.  The  strong  loved  me  not, 

And  he  . . my  cousin  Romney  . . did  not  write. 

I felt  the  silent  finger  of  his  scorn 
Prick  every  bubble  of  my  frivolous  fame 
As  my  breath  blew  it,  and  resolve  it  back 
To  the  air  it  came  from.  Oh,  I justified 
The  measure  he  had  taken  of  my  height : 

The  thing  was  plain — he  was  not  wrong  a line  ; 

I played  at  art,  made  thrusts  with  a toy-sword, 
Amused  the  lads  and  maidens. 

' Came  a sigh 
Deep,  hoarse  with  resolution, — I would  work 
To  better  ends,  or  play  in  earnest.  ‘ Heavens, 

I think  I should  be  almost  popular 
If  this  went  on !’ — I ripped  my  verses  up, 

And  found  no  blood  upon  the  rapier’s  point ; 

The  heart  in  them  was  just  an  embryo’s  heart 

H 


98 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


Which  never  yet  had  beat,  that  it  should  die  ; 

Just  gasps  of  make-believe  galvanic  life ; 

Mere  tones,  inorganised  to  any  tune. 

And  yet  I felt  it  in  me  where  it  burnt, 

Like  those  hot  fire-seeds  of  creation  held 
In  Jove’s  clenched  palm  before  the  worlds  were  sown, 
But  I — I was  not  Juno  even  ! my  hand 
Was  shut  in  weak  convulsion,  woman’s  ill, 

And  when  I yearned  to  loose  a finger — lo, 

The  nerve  revolted.  ’T  is  the  same  even  now : 

This  hand  may  never,  haply,  open  large, 

Before  the  spark  is  quenched,  or  the  palm  charred, 

To  prove  the  power  not  else  than  by  the  pain. 

It  burns,  it  burnt — my  whole  life  burnt  with  it, 

And  light,  not  sunlight  and  not  torchlight,  flashed 
My  steps  out  through  the  slow  and  difficult  road. 

I had  grown  distrustful  of  too  forward  Springs, 

The  season’s  books  in  drear  significance 
Of  morals,  dropping  round  me.  Lively  books  ? 

The  ash  has  livelier  verdure  than  the  yew ; 

And  yet  the  yew ’s  green  longer,  and  alone 
Found  worthy  of  the  holy  Christmas  time  : 

We  ’ll  plant  more  yews  if  possible,  albeit 
We  plant  the  graveyards  with  them. 

Day  and  night 

I worked  my  rhythmic  thought,  and  furrowed  up 
Both  watch  and  slumber  with  long  lines  of  life 
Wrhich  did  not  suit  their  season.  The  rose  fell 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


99 


From  either  cheek,  my  eyes  globed  luminous 
Through  orbits  of  blue  shadow,  and  my  pulse 
Would  shudder  along  the  purple-veined  wrist 
Like  a shot  bird.  Youth ’s  stern,  set  face  to  face 
With  youth’s  ideal : and  when  people  came 
And  said,  ‘ You  work  too  much,  you  are  looking  ill/ 

1 smiled  for  pity  of  them  who  pitied  me, 

And  thought  I should  be  better  soon  perhaps 
For  those  ill  looks.  Observe — ‘ 1/  means  in  youth 
Just  /,  the  conscious  and  eternal  soul 
With  all  its  ends,  and  not  the  outside  life, 

The  parcel-man,  the  doublet  of  the  flesh, 

The  so  much  liver,  lung,  integument, 

Which  make  the  sum  of  ‘ I ’ hereafter  when 
World-talkers  talk  of  doing  well  or  ill. 

I prosper  if  I gain  a step,  although 
A nail  then  pierced  my  foot : although  my  brain 
Embracing  any  truth  froze  paralysed, 

1 prosper : I but  change  my  instrument ; 

I break  the  spade  off,  digging  deep  for  gold, 

And  catch  the  mattock  up. 

"I  worked  on,  on. 

Through  all  the  bristling  fence  of  nights  and  days 
Which  hedges  time  in  from  the  eternities, 

I struggled, — never  stopped  to  note  the  stakes 
Which  hurt  me  in  my  course.  The  midnight  oil 
Would  stink  sometimes  ; there  came  some  vulgar  needs  : 
I had  to  live  that  therefore  I might  work, 

And,  being  but  poor,  I was  constrained,  for  life, 

To  work  with  one  hand  for  the  booksellers 


100 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


While  working  with  the  other  for  myself 
And  art : you  swim  with  feet  as  well  as  hands, 

Or  make  small  way.  I apprehended  this, — 

In  England  no  one  lives  by  verse  that  lives  ; 

And,  apprehending,  I resolved  by  prose 
To  make  a space  to  sphere  my  living  verse. 

I wrote  for  cyclopaedias,  magazines, 

And  weekly  papers,  holding  up  my  name 
To  keep  it  from  the  mud.  I learnt  the  use 
Of  the  editorial  ‘ we  ’ in  a review 
As  courtly  ladies  the  fine  trick  of  trains, 

And  swept  it  grandly  through  the  open  doors 
As  if  one  could  not  pass  through  doors  at  all 
Save  so  encumbered.  I wrote  tales  beside, 

Carved  many  an  article  on  cherry-stones 
To  suit  light  readers, — something  in  the  lines 
Revealing,  it  was  said,  the  mallet-hand, 

But  that,  I ’ll  never  vouch  for : what  you  do 
For  bread,  will  taste  of  common  grain,  not  grapes, 
Although  you  have  a vineyard  in  Champagne ; 

Much  less  in  Nephelococcygia 
As  mine  was,  peradventure. 

Having  bread 

For  just  so  many  days,  just  breathing-room 

For  body  and  verse,  I stood  up  straight  and  worked 

My  veritable  work.  And  as  the  soul 

Which  grows  within  a child  makes  the  child  grow, — 

Or  as  the  fiery  sap,  the  touch  from  God, 

Careering  through  a tree,  dilates  the  bark 
And  roughs  with  scale  and  knob,  before  it  strikes 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


101 


The  summer  foliage  out  in  a green  flame — 

So  life,  in  deepening  with  me,  deepened  all 
The  course  I took,  the  work  I did.  Indeed 
The  academic  law  convinced  of  sin  ; 

The  critics  cried  out  on  the  falling  off, 

Regretting  the  first  manner.  But  I felt 
My  heart’s  life  throbbing  in  my  verse  to  show 
It  lived,  it  also— certes  incomplete, 

Disordered  with  all  Adam  in  the  blood, 

But  even  its  very  tumours,  warts  and  wens 
Still  organised  by  and  implying  life. 

A lady  called  upon  me  on  such  a day. 

She  had  the  low  voice  of  your  English  dames. 
Unused,  it  seems,  to  need  rise  half  a note 
To  catch  attention, — and  their  quiet  mood, 

As  if  they  lived  too  high  above  the  earth 
For  that  to  put  them  out  in  anything : 

So  gentle,  because  verily  so  proud ; 

So  wary  and  afraid  of  hurting^  you, 

By  no  means  that  you  are  not  really  vile, 

But  that  they  would  not  touch  you  with  their  foot 
To  push  you  to  your  place  ; so  self-possessed 
Yet  gracious  and  conciliating,  it  takes 
An  effort  in  their  presence  to  speak  truth  : 

You  know  the  sort  of  woman, — brilliant  stuff, 

And  out  of  nature.  ‘ Lady  Waldemar.’ 

She  said  her  name  quite  simply,  as  if  it  meant 
Not  much  indeed,  but  something, — took  my  hands. 
And  smiled  as  if  her  smile  could  help  my  case, 


102 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


And  dropped  her  eyes  on  me  and  let  them  melt. 

4 Is  this,’  she  said,  4 the  Muse  V 

4 No  sybil  even/ 

I answered,  4 since  she  fails  to  guess  the  cause 
Which  taxed  you  with  this  visit,  madam.’ 

4 Good,’ 

She  said,  4 1 value  what ’s  sincere  at  once. 

Perhaps  if  I had  found  a literal  Muse, 

The  visit  might  have  taxed  me.  As  it  is, 

You  wear  your  blue  so  chiefly  in  your  eyes, 

My  fair  Aurora,  in  a frank  good  way, 

It  comforts  me  entirely  for  your  fame, 

As  well  as  for  the  trouble  of  ascent 
To  this  Olympus.’ 

There,  a silver  laugh 

Pan  rippling  through  her  quickened  little  breaths 
The  steep  stair  somewhat  justified. 

4 But  still 

Your  ladyship  has  left  me  curious  why 
You  dared  the  risk  of  finding  the  said  Muse  ?’ 

4 Ah, — keep  me,  notwithstanding,  to  the  point, 

Like  any  pedant  ? Is  the  blue  in  eyes 
As  awful  as  in  stockings  after  all, 

I wonder,  that  you ’d  have  my  business  out 
Before  I breathe — exact  the  epic  plunge 
In  spite  of  gasps  ? Well,  naturally  you  think 
I ’ve  come  here,  as  the  lion-hunters  go 
To  deserts,  to  secure  you  with  a trap 
For  exhibition  in  my  drawing-rooms 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


103 


On  zoologic  soirees  ? not  in  the  least. 

Roar  softly  at  me  ; I am  frivolous, 

I dare  say ; I have  played  at  wild-beast  shows 
Like  other  women  of  my  class, — but  now 
I meet  my  lion  simply  as  Androcles 
Met  his  . . when  at  his  mercy.’ 

So,  she  bent 

Her  head,  as  queens  may  mock, — then  lifting  up 
Her  eyelids  with  a real  grave  queenly  look, 

Which  ruled  and  would  not  spare,  not  even  herself, — 

4 1 think  you  have  a cousin : — Romney  Leigh.’ 

4 You  bring  a word  from  him  V — my  eyes  leapt  up 
To  the  very  height  of  hers, — 4 a word  from  him  V 

4 1 bring  a word  about  him,  actually. 

But  first,’  (she  pressed  me  with  her  urgent  eyes) 

4 You  do  not  love  him, — you  ?’ 

4 You  ’re  frank  at  least 
In  putting  questions,  madam,’  I replied ; 

4 1 love  my  cousin  cousinly — no  more.’ 

4 1 guessed  as  much.  I ’m  ready  to  be  frank 
In  answering  also,  if  you  ’ll  question  me, 

Or  even  for  something  less.  You  stand  outside, 

You  artist  women,  of  the  common  sex ; 

You  share  not  with  us,  and  exceed  us  so 
Perhaps  by  what  you  ’re  mulcted  in,  your  hearts 
Being  starved  to  make  your  heads  : so  run  the  old 
Traditions  of  you.  I can  therefore  speak 


104 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


Without  the  natural  shame  which  creatures  feel 
When  speaking  on  their  level,  to  their  like. 

There  ’s  many  a papist  she,  would  rather  die 
Than  own  to  her  maid  she  put  a ribbon  on 
To  catch  the  indifferent  eye  of  such  a man, 

Who  yet  would  count  adulteries  on  her  beads 
At  holy  Mary’s  shrine  and  never  blush ; 

Because  the  saints  are  so  far  off,  we  lose 
All  modesty  before  them.  Thus,  to-day. 

’T  is  /,  love  Bomney  Leigh.’ 

‘ Forbear,’  I cried. 

‘ If  here ’s  no  Muse,  still  less  is  any  saint; 

Nor  even  a friend,  that  Lady  Waldemar 
Should  make  confessions  ’ . . 

1 That ’s  unkindly  said. 
If  no  friend,  what  forbids  to  make  a friend 
To  join  to  our  confession  ere  we  have  done  ? 

I love  your  cousin.  If  it  seems  unwise 
To  say  so,  it ’s  still  foolisher  (we  ’re  frank) 

To  feel  so.  My  first  husband  left  me  young, 

And  pretty  enough,  so  please  you,  and  rich  enough, 
To  keep  my  booth  in  May-fair  with  the  rest 
To  happy  issues.  There  are  marquises 
Would  serve  seven  years  to  call  me  wife,  I know, 
And,  after  seven,  I might  consider  it, 

For  there ’s  some  comfort  in  a marquisate 
When  all ’s  said, — yes,  but  after  the  seven  years ; 

I,  now,  love  Bomney.  You  put  up  your  lip, 

So  like  a Leigh  ! so  like  him ! — Pardon  me, 

I ’m  well  aware  I do  not  derogate 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


105 


In  loving  Romney  Leigh.  The  name  is  good, 

The  means  are  excellent,  but  the  man,  the  man — 
Heaven  help  us  both, — I am  near  as  mad  as  he, 

In  loving  such  an  one.’ 

She  slowly  swung 

Her  heavy  ringlets  till  they  touched  her  smile, 

As  reasonably  sorry  for  herself, 

And  thus  continued. 

‘ Of  a truth,  Miss  Leigh, 

1 have  not,  without  struggle,  come  to  this. 

I took  a master  in  the  German  tongue, 

I gamed  a little,  went  to  Paris  twice ; 

But,  after  all,  this  love  ! . . . you  eat  of  love, 

And  do  as  vile  a thing  as  if  you  ate 
Of  garlic — which,  whatever  else  you  eat, 

Tastes  uniformly  acrid,  till  your  peach 
Reminds  you  of  your  onion.  Am  I coarse  ? 

Well,  love ’s  coarse,  nature  ’s  coarse — ah,  there  ’s  the  rub 
We  fair  fine  ladies,  who  park  out  our  lives 
From  common  sheep-paths,  cannot  help  the  crows 
From  flying  over, — we  ’re  as  natural  still 
As  Blowsalinda.  Drape  us  perfectly 
In  Lyons’  velvet, — we  are  not,  for  that, 

Lay-figures,  look  you  : we  have  hearts  within, 

Warm,  live,  improvident,  indecent  hearts, 

As  ready  for  outrageous  ends  and  acts 
As  any  distressed  sempstress  of  them  all 
That  Romney  groans  and  toils  for.  We  catch  love 
And  other  fevers,  in  the  vulgar  way : 

Love  will  not  be  outwitted  by  our  wit, 


106 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


Nor  outrun  by  our  equipages  : — mine 

Persisted,  spite  of  efforts.  All  my  cards 

Turned  up  but  Romney  Leigh ; my  German  stopped 

At  germane  Wertherism  ; my  Paris  rounds 

Returned  me  from  the  Champs  Elysees  just 

A ghost,  and  sighing  like  Dido’s.  I came  home 

Uncured, — convicted  rather  to  myself 

Of  being  in  love  ...  in  love  ! That ’s  coarse  you  ’ll  say. 

I ’m  talking  garlic.’ 

Coldly  I replied. 

‘ Apologise  for  atheism,  not  love ! 

For  me,  I do  believe  in  love,  and  God. 

I know  my  cousin  : Lady  Waldemar 
I know  not : yet  I say  as  much  as  this  ; 

Whoever  loves  him,  let  her  not  excuse 
But  cleanse  herself,  that,  loving  such  a man, 

She  may  not  do  it  with  such  unworthy  love 
He  cannot  stoop  and  take  it.’ 

‘ That  is  said 

Austerely,  like  a youthful  prophetess, 

Who  knits  her  brows  across  her  pretty  eyes 
To  keep  them  back  from  following  the  gray  flight 
Of  doves  between  the  temple-columns.  Dear, 

Be  kinder  with  me ; let  us  two  be  friends. 

I ’m  a mere  woman, — the  more  weak  perhaps 
Through  being  so  proud ; you  ’re  better ; as  for  him, 

He ’s  best.  Indeed  he  builds  his  goodness  up 
So  high,  it  topples  down  to  the  other  side 
And  makes  a sort  of  badness  ; there ’s  the  worst 
I have  to  say  against  your  cousin’s  best ! 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


107 


And  so  be  mild,  Aurora,  with  my  worst 
For  his  sake,  if  not  mine.’ 

‘ I own  myself 

Incredulous  of  confidence  like  this 
Availing  him  or  you.’ 

‘ And  I,  myself, 

Of  being  worthy  of  him  with  any  love  : 

In  your  sense  I am  not  so — let  it  pass. 

And  yet  I save  him  if  I marry  him  ; 

Let  that  pass  too.’ 

‘ Pass,  pass ! we  play  police 
Upon  my  cousin’s  life,  to  indicate 
What  may  or  may  not  pass  ?’  I cried.  ‘ He  knows 
What ’s  worthy  of  him  ; the  choice  remains  with  him  ; 
And  what  he  chooses,  act  or  wife,  I think 
I shall  not  call  unworthy,  T,  for  one.’ 

‘ ’T  is  somewhat  rashly  said,’  she  answered  slow ; 

‘ Now  let ’s  talk  reason,  though  we  talk  of  love. 

Your  cousin  Romney  Leigh  ’s*a  monster ; there, 

The  word  ’s  out  fairly,  let  me  prove  the  fact. 

We  ’ll  take,  say,  that  most  perfect  of  antiques 
They  call  the  Genius  of  the  Vatican, 

(Which  seems  too  beauteous  to  endure  itself 
In  this  mixed  world,)  and  fasten  it  for  once 
Upon  the  torso  of  the  Dancing  Fawn, 

(Who  might  limp  surely,  if  he  did  not  dance,) 

Instead  of  Buonarroti’s  mask  : what  then  ? 

We  show  the  sort  of  monster  Romney  is, 

With  god-like  virtues  and  heroic  aims 


108 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


Subjoined  to  limping  possibilities 
Of  mismade  human  nature.  Grant  the  man 
Twice  godlike,  twice  heroic, — still  he  limps, 
And  here  ’s  the  point  we  come  to.’ 

4 Pardon  me, 

But,  Lady  Waldemar,  the  point ’s  the  thing 
We  never  come  to.’ 


‘ Caustic,  insolent 

At  need ! I like  you  ’ — (there,  she  took  my  hands) 
4 And  now  my  lioness,  help  Androcles, 

For  all  your  roaring.  Help  me ! for  myself 
I would  not  say  so — but  for  him.  He  limps 
So  certainly,  he  ’ll  fall  into  the  pit 
A week  hence, — so  I lose  him — so  he  is  lost ! 

For  when  he ’s  fairly  married,  he  a Leigh, 

To  a girl  of  doubtful  life,  undoubtful  birth, 

Starved  out  in  London  till  her  coarse-grained  hands 
Are  whiter  than  her  morals, — even  you 
May  call  his  choice  unworthy.’ 

4 Married ! lost ! 


He,  . . . Eomney!’ 

4 Ah,  you  ’re  moved  at  last,’  she  said. 

4 These  monsters,  set  out  in  the  open  sun, 

Of  course  throw  monstrous  shadows : those  who  think 
Awry,  will  scarce  act  straightly.  Who  but  he  ? 

And  who  but  you  can  wonder  ? He  has  been  mad, 
The  whole  world  knows,  since  first,  a nominal  man, 
He  soured  the  proctors,  tried  the  gownsmen’s  wits, 
With  equal  scorn  of  triangles  and  wine, 

And  took  no  honours,  yet  was  honourable. 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


109 


They  ’ll  tell  you  he  lost  count  of  Homer’s  ships 
In  Melbourne’s  poor-bills,  Ashley’s  factory  bills, — 
Ignored  the  Aspasia  we  all  dare  to  praise, 

For  other  women,  dear,  we  could  not  name 
Because  we  ’re  decent.  Well,  he  had  some  right 
On  his  side  probably ; men  always  have, 

Who  go  absurdly  wrong.  The  living  boor 
Who  brews  your  ale,  exceeds  in  vital  worth 
.Dead  Caesar  who  ‘ stops  bungholes’  in  the  cask  ; 

And  also,  to  do  good  is  excellent, 

For  persons  of  his  income,  even  to  boors  : 

I sympathise  with  all  such  things.  But  he 
Went  mad  upon  them  . . madder  and  more  mad 
From  college  times  to  these, — as,  going  down  hill, 

The  faster  still,  the  farther.  You  must  know 
Your  Leigh  by  heart : he  has  sown  his  black  young  curls 
With  bleaching  cares  of  half  a million  men 
Already.  If  you  do  not  starve,  or  sin, 

You  ’re  nothing  to  him : pay  the  income-tax 

And  break  your  heart  upon ’t,  he  ’ll  scarce  be  touched  v 

But  come  upon  the  parish,  qualified 

For  the  parish  stocks,  and  Romney  will  be  there 

To  call  you  brother,  sister,  or  perhaps 

A tenderer  name  still.  Had  I any  chance 

With  Mister  Leigh,  who  am  Lady  AYaldemar 

And  never  committed  felony  ?’ 

‘ You  speak 

Too  bitterly,’  I said,  ‘ for  the  literal  truth.’ 

4 The  truth  is  bitter.  Here ’s  a man  who  looks 


110 


AUBOBA  LEIGH. 


For  ever  on  the  ground  ! you  must  be  low, 

Or  else  a pictured  ceiling  overhead, 

Good  painting  thrown  away.  For  me,  I Ve  done 
What  women  may,  we  ’re  somewhat  limited, 

We  modest  women,  but  I Ve  done  my  best. 

— How  men  are  perjured  when  they  swear  our  eyes 
Have  meaning  in  them  ! they  ’re  just  blue  or  brown. 
They  just  can  drop  their  lids  a little.  And  yet 
Mine  did  more,  for  I read  half  Fourier  through, 
Proudhon,  Considerant,  and  Louis  Blanc, 

With  various  others  of  his  socialists, 

And,  if  I had  been  a fathom  less  in  love, 

Had  cured  myself  with  gaping.  As  it  was, 

I quoted  from  them  prettily  enough 
Perhaps,  to  make  them  sound  half  rational 
To  a saner  man  than  he  whene’er  we  talked, 

(For  which  1 dodged  occasion) — learnt  by  heart 
Plis  speeches  in  the  Commons  and  elsewhere 
Upon  the  social  question  ; heaped  reports 
Of  wicked  women  and  penitentiaries 
On  all  my  tables,  (with  a place  for  Sue) 

And  gave  my  name  to  swell  subscription-lists 
Toward  keeping  up  the  sun  at  nights  in  heaven, 

And  other  possible  ends.  All  things  I did, 

Except  the  impossible  . . such  as  wearing  gowns 
Provided  by  the  Ten  Hours’  movement : there, 

I stopped — we  must  stop  somewhere.  He,  meanwhile. 
Unmoved  as  the  Indian  tortoise  ’neath  the  world, 

Let  all  that  noise  go  on  upon  his  back  : 

He  would  not  disconcert  or  throw  me  out, 


AURORA  LEIGH 


111 


’T  was  well  to  see  a woman  of  my  class 
With  such  a dawn  of  conscience.  For  the  heart, 
Made  firewood  for  his  sake,  and  flaming  up 
To  his  face, — he  merely  warmed  his  feet  at  it : 
Just  deigned  to  let  my  carriage  stop  him  short 
In  park  or  street, — he  leaning  on  the  door 
With  news  of  the  committee  which  sate  last 
On  pickpockets  at  suck.’ 


4 You  jest — you  jest.’ 

‘ As  martyrs  jest,  dear,  (if  you  read  their  lives) 

Upon  the  axe  whi cl \ kills  them.  When  all ’s  done 
By  me,  . . for  him — /ou  ’ll  ask  him  presently 
The  colour  of  my  hair — he  cannot  tell, 

Or  answers  4 dark  ’ at  random ; while,  he  sure, 

He ’s  absolute  on  the  figure,  five  or  ten, 

Of  my  last  subscription.  Is  it  bearable, 

And  I a woman  ?’ 

4 Is  it  reparablp, 

Though  I were  a man  ? 

4 1 know  not.  That ’s  to  prove. 
But  first,  this  shameful  marriage  ?’ 

4 Ay  ?’  I cried, 

4 Then  really  there ’s  a marriage  ?’ 

4 Yesterday 

I held  him  fast  upon  it.  4 Mister  Leigh,’ 

Said  I,  4 shut  up  a thing,  it  makes  more  noise. 

4 The  boiling  town  keeps  secrets  ill ; I ’ve  known 
4 Yours  since  last  week.  Forgive  my  knowledge  so  : 


112 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


4 You  feel  I ’m  not  the  woman  of  the  world 
4 The  world  thinks ; you  have  borne  with  me  before, 

4 And  used  me  in  your  noble  work,  our  work, 

4 And  now  you  shall  not  cast  me  off  because 
4 You  ’re  at  the  difficult  point,  the  join.  ’T  is  true 
4 Even  I can  scarce  admit  the  cogency 
4 Of  such  a marriage  . . where  you  do  not  love, 

4 (Except  the  class)  yet  marry  and  throw  your  name 
4 Down  to  the  gutter,  for  a fire-escape 
4 To  future  generations  ! ’t  is  sublime, 

4 A great  example,  a true  Genesis 
4 Of  the  opening  social  era.  But  take  heed, 

4 This  virtuous  act  must  have  a patent  weight, 

4 Or  loses  half  its  virtue.  Make  it  tell, 

4 Interpret  it,  and  set  in  the  light, 

4 And  do  not  muffle  it  in  a winter-cloak 
4 As  a vulgar  bit  of  shame, — as  if,  at  best, 

4 A Leigh  had  made  a misalliance  and  blushed 
4 A Howard  should  know  it.’  Then,  I pressed  him  more 
4 He  would  not  choose,’  I said,  4 that  even  his  kin,  . . 

4 Aurora  Leigh,  even  . . should  conceive  his  act 
4 Less  sacrifice,  more  fantasy.’  At  which 
He  grew  so  pale,  dear,  . . to  the  lips,  I knew 
I had  touched  him.  4 Do  you  know  her,’  he  inquired, 

4 My  cousin  Aurora  ?’  4 Yes,’  I said,  and  lied, 

(But  truly  we  all  know  you  by  your  books) 

And  so  I offered  to  come  straight  to  you, 

Explain  the  subject,  justify  the  cause, 

And  take  you  with  me  to  St.  Margaret’s  Court 
To  see  this  miracle,  this  Marian  Erie, 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


113 


This  drover’s  daughter  (she ’s  not  pretty,  he  swears) 

Upon  whose  finger,  exquisitely  pricked 

By  a hundred  needles,  we  ’re  to  hang  the  tie 

’Twixt  class  and  class  in  England, — thus  indeed 

!By  such  a presence,  yours  and  mine,  to  lift 

The  match  up  from  the  doubtful  place.  At  once 

lie  thanked  me  sighing,  murmured  to  himself 

‘ She  ’ll  do  it  perhaps,  she ’s  noble,’ — thanked  me  twice, 

And  promised,  as  my  guerdon,  to  put  off 

His  marriage  for  a month.’ 

I answered  then. 

4 1 understand  your  drift  imperfectly. 

You  wish  to  lead  me  to  my  cousin’s  betrothed, 

To  touch  her  hand  if  worthy,  and  hold  her  hand 
If  feeble,  thus  to  justify  his  match. 

So  be  it  then.  But  how  this  serves  your  ends, 

And  how  the  strange  confession  of  your  love 
Serves  this,  I have  to  learn — I cannot  see.’ 

She  knit  her  restless  forehead.  ‘ Then,  despite. 

Aurora,  that  most  radiant  morning  name, 

You  ’re  dull  as  any  London  afternoon. 

I wanted  time,  and  gained  it, — wanted  you, 

And  gain  you ! you  will  come  and  see  the  girl 

In  whose  most  prodigal  eyes  the  lineal  pearl 

And  pride  of  all  your  lofty  race  of  Leighs 

Is  destined  to  solution.  Authorised 

By  sight  and  knowledge,  then,  you  ’ll  speak  your  mind, 

And  prove  to  Romney,  in  your  brilliant  way, 

He  ’ll  wrong  the  people  and  posterity, 


i 


114 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


(Say  such  a thing  is  bad  for  me  and  you, 

And  you  fail  utterly,)  by  concluding  thus 
An  execrable  marriage.  Break  it  up, 

Disroot  it — peradventure  presently 
We  ’ll  plant  a better  fortune  in  its  place. 

Be  good  to  me,  Aurora,  scorn  me  less 

For  saying  the  thing  I should  not.  Well  I know 

I should  not.  I have  kept,  as  others  have, 

The  iron  rule  of  womanly  reserve 
In  lip  and  life,  till  now : I wept  a week 
Before  I came  here.’ — Ending,  she  was  pale  ; 

The  last  words,  haughtily  said,  were  tremulous. 

This  palfrey  pranced  in  harness,  arched  her  neck, 

And,  only  by  the  foam  upon  the  bit, 

You  saw  she  champed  against  it. 

Then  I rose. 

4 I love  love  : truth  ’s  no  cleaner  thing  than  love. 

I comprehend  a love  so  fiery  hot 
It  burns  its  natural  veil  of  august  shame, 

And  stands  sublimely  in  the  nude,  as  chaste 
As  Medicean  Venus.  But  I know, 

A love  that  burns  through  veils  will  burn  through  masks 
And  shrivel  up  treachery.  What,  love  and  lie ! 

Nay — go  to  the  opera ! your  love ’s  curable.’ 

4 1 love  and  lie  ?’  she  said — 4 I lie,  forsooth  ?’ 

And  beat  her  taper  foot  upon  the  floor, 

And  smiled  against  the  shoe, — 4 You  ’re  hard,  Miss  Leigh, 
Unversed  in  current  phrases. — Bowling-greens 
Of  poets  are  fresher  than  the  world’s  highways  : 


AUEOUA  LEIGH. 


115 


Forgive  me  that  I rashly  hlew  the  dust 
Which  dims  our  hedges  even,  in  your  eyes, 

And  vexed  you  so  much.  You  find,  probably, 

No  evil  in  this  marriage, — rather  good 
Of  innocence,  to  pastoralise  in  song  : 

You  ’ll  give  the  bond  your  signature,  perhaps, 

Beneath  the  lady’s  mark, — indifferent 

That  Bomney  chose  a wife,  could  write  her  name, 

In  witnessing  he  loved  her.’ 

4 Loved  !’  I cried  ; 

4 Who  tells  you  that  he  wants  a wife  to  love  ? 

He  gets  a horse  to  use,  not  love,  I think  : 

There ’s  work  for  wives  as  well, — and  after,  straw, 
When  men  are  liberal.  For  myself,  you  err 
Supposing  power  in  me  to  break  this  match. 

I could  not  do  it,  to  save  Romney’s  life, 

And  would  not,  to  save  mine.’ 

4 You  take  it  so,’ 

She  said,  4 farewell  then.  Write  your  books  in  peace, 
As  far  as  may  be  for  some  secret '’stir 
Now  obvious  to  me, — for,  most  obviously, 

In  coming  hither  I mistook  the  way.’ 

Whereat  she  touched  my  hand  and  bent  her  head, 
And  floated  from  me  like  a silent  cloud 
That  leaves  the  sense  of  thunder. 

I drew  breath, 

Oppressed  in  my  deliverance.  After  all 
This  woman  breaks  her  social  system  up 
For  love,  so  counted — the  love  possible 
To  such, — and  lilies  are  still  lilies,  pulled 


116 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


By  smutty  hands,  though  spotted  from  their  white 
And  thus  she  is  better  haply,  of  her  kind, 

Than  Romney  Leigh,  who  lives  by  diagrams, 

And  crosses  out  the  spontaneities 
Of  all  his  individual,  personal  life 
With  formal  universals.  As  if  man 
Were  set  upon  a high  stool  at  a desk 
To  keep  God’s  books  for  Him  in  red  and  black, 
And  feel  b}^  millions  ! What,  if  even  God 
Were  chiefly  God  by  living  out  Himself 
To  an  individualism  of  the  Infinite, 

Eterne,  intense,  profuse, — still  throwing  up 
The  golden  spray  of  multitudinous  worlds 
In  measure  to  the  proclive  weight  and  rush 
Of  His  inner  nature, — the  spontaneous  love 
Still  proof  and  outflow  of  spontaneous  life  ? 

Then  live,  Aurora. 

Two  hours  afterward, 
Within  St.  Margaret’s  Court  I stood  alone, 
Close-veiled.  A sick  child,  from  an  ague-fit, 
Whose  wasted  right  hand  gambled  ’gainst  his  left 
With  an  old  brass  button  in  a blot  of  sun, 

Jeered  weakly  at  me  as  I passed  across 

The  uneven  pavement ; while  a woman,  rouged 

Upon  the  angular  cheek-bones,  kerchief  torn, 

Thin  dangling  locks,  and  flat  lascivious  mouth, 
Cursed  at  a window  both  ways,  in  and  out, 

By  turns  some  bed-rid  creature  and  myself, — 

‘ Lie  still  there,  mother  ! liker  the  dead  dog 
You  ’ll  be  to-morrow.  What,  we  pick  our  way, 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


Fine  madam,  with  those  damnable  small  feet ! 

We  cover  up  our  face  from  doing  good, 

As  if  it  were  our  purse  ! What  brings  you  here, 
My  lady  ? is ’t  to  find  my  gentleman 
Who  visits  his  tame  pigeon  in  the  eaves  ? 

Our  cholera  catch  you  with  its  cramps  and  spasms, 
And  tumble  up  your  good  clothes,  veil  and  all, 

And  turn  your  whiteness  dead-blue.’  I looked  up  ; 
I think  I could  have  walked  through  hell  that  day, 
And  never  flinched.  4 The  dear  Christ  comfort  you 
I said,  4 you  must  have  been  most  miserable, 

To  be  so  cruel,’ — and  I emptied  out 
My  purse  upon  the  stones : when,  as  1 had  cast 
The  last  charm  in  the  cauldron,  the  whole  court 
Went  boiling,  bubbling  up,  from  all  its  doors 
And  windows,  with  a hideous  wail  of  laughs 
And  roar  of  oaths,  and  blows  perhaps  . . I passed 
Too  quickly  for  distinguishing  . . and  pushed 
A little  side-door  hanging  on  a hinge, 

And  plunged  into  the  dark,  and'groped  and  climbed 
The  long,  steep,  narrow  stair  ’twixt  broken  rail 
And  mildewed  wall  that  let  the  plaster  drop 
To  startle  me  in  the  blackness.  Still,  up,  up ! 

So  high  lived  Romney’s  bride.  I paused  at  last 
Before  a low  door  in  the  roof,  and  knocked ; 

There  came  an  answer  like  a hurried  dove — 

6 So  soon  ? can  that  be  Mister  Leigh  ? so  soon  ?* 

And,  as  I entered,  an  ineffable  face 

Met  mine  upon  the  threshold.  4 Oh,  not  you, 

Not  you !’ — the  dropping  of  the  voice  implied, 


118 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


‘ Then,  if  not  you,  for  me  not  any  one.’ 

I looked  her  in  the  eyes,  and  held  her  hands, 

And  said,  4 1 am  his  cousin, — Romney  Leigh’s ; 
And  here  I come  to  see  my  cousin  too.’ 

She  touched  me  with  her  face  and  with  her  voice, 
This  daughter  of  the  people.  Such  soft  flowers, 
From  such  rough  roots  ? the  people,  under  there, 
Can  sin  so,  curse  so,  look  so,  smell  so  . . . faugh ! 
Yet  have  such  daughters  ? 

No  wise  beautiful 

Was  Marian  Erie.  She  was  not  white  nor  brown, 
But  could  look  either,  like  a mist  that  changed 
According  to  being  shone  on  more  or  less : 

The  hair,  too,  ran  its  opulence  of  curls 
In  doubt  ’twixt  dark  and  bright,  nor  left  you  clear 
To  name  the  colour.  Too  much  hair  perhaps 
(I  ’ll  name  a fault  here)  for  so  small  a head, 

Which  seemed  to  droop  on  that  side  and  on  this, 
As  a full-blown  rose  uneasy  with  its  weight 
Though  not  a wind  should  trouble  it.  Again, 

The  dimple  in  the  cheek  had  better  gone 
With  redder,  fuller  rounds  ; and  somewhat  large 
The  mouth  was,  though  the  milky  little  teeth 
Dissolved  it  to  so  infantine  a smile. 

For  soon  it  smiled  at  me  ; the  eyes  smiled  too, 

But ’t  was  as  if  remembering  they  had  wept, 

And  knowing  they  should,  some  day,  weep  again. 

We  talked.  She  told  me  all  her  story  out, 

Which  I ’ll  re-tell  with  fuller  utterance, 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


119 


As  coloured  and  confirmed  in  aftertimes 
By  others  and  herself  too.  Marian  Erie 
Was  horn  upon  the  ledge  of  Malvern  Hill 
To  eastward,  in  a hut  built  up  at  night 
To  evade  the  landlord’s  eye,  of  mud  and  turf, 

Still  liable,  if  once  he  looked  that  way, 

To  being  straight  levelled,  scattered  by  his  foot, 

Like  any  other  anthill.  Bora,  I say ; 

God  sent  her  to  his  world,  commissioned  right, 

Her  human  testimonials  fully  signed, 

Not  scant  in  soul — complete  in  lineaments ; 

But  others  had  to  swindle  her  a place 

To  wail  in  when  she  had  come.  No  place  for  her, 

By  man’s  law ! born  an  outlaw,  was  this  babe ; 

Her  first  cry  in  our  strange  and  strangling  air, 

When  cast  in  spasms  out  by  the  shuddering  womb, 
Was  wrong  against  the  social  code, — forced  wrong  : — 
What  business  had  the  baby  to  cry  there  ? 

I tell  her  story  and  grow  passionate. 

She,  Marian,  did  not  tell  it  so,  but  used 
Meek  words  that  made  no  wonder  of  herself 
For  being  so  sad  a creature.  ‘ Mister  Leigh 
4 Considered  truly  that  such  things  should  change. 

‘ They  will , in  heaven — but  meantime,  on  the  earth, 

4 There ’s  none  can  like  a nettle  as  a pink, 

4 Except  himself.  We  ’re  nettles,  some  of  us, 

4 And  give  offence  by  the  act  of  springing  up ; 

4 And,  if  we  leave  the  damp  side  of  the  wall, 

4 The  hoes,  of  course,  are  on  us.’  So  she  said. 


120 


AUEOEA  LEIGH. 


Her  father  earned  his  life  by  random  jobs 
Despised  by  steadier  workmen — keeping  swine 
On  commons,  picking  hops,  or  hurrying  on 
The  harvest  at  wet  seasons,  or,  at  need, 

Assisting  the  Welsh  drovers,  when  a drove 
Of  startled  horses  plunged  into  the  mist 
Below  the  mountain-road,  and  sowed  the  wind 
With  wandering  neighings.  In  between  the  gaps 
Of  such  irregular  work,  he  drank  and  slept, 

And  cursed  his  wife  because,  the  pence  being  out, 

She  could  not  buy  more  drink.  At  which  she  turned, 
(The  worm)  and  beat  her  baby  in  revenge 
For  her  own  broken  heart.  There  ’s  not  a crime 
But  takes  its  proper  change  out  still  in  crime 
If  once  rung  on  the  counter  of  this  world  : 

Let  sinners  look  to  it. 

Yet  the  outcast  child, 

For  whom  the  very  mother’s  face  forewent 
The  mother’s  special  patience,  lived  and  grew ; 

Learnt  early  to  cry  low,  and  walk  alone, 

With  that  pathetic  vacillating  roll 
Of  the  infant  body  on  the  uncertain  feet, 

(The  earth  being  felt  unstable  ground  so  soon) 

At  which  most  women’s  arms  unclose  at  once 
With  irrepressive  instinct.  Thus,  at  three, 

This  poor  weaned  kid  would  run  off  from  the  fold, 

This  babe  would  steal  off  from  the  mother’s  chair, 

And,  creeping  through  the  golden  walls  of  gorse, 
Would  find  some  keyhole  toward  the  secresy 
Of  Heaven’s  high  blue,  and,  nestling  down,  peer  out— 


AUEOEA  LEIGH. 


121 


Oh,  not  to  catch  the  angels  at  their  games, 

She  had  never  heard  of  angels, — hut  to  gaze 
She  knew  not  why,  to  see  she  knew  not  what, 
A-hungering  outward  from  the  barren  earth 
For  something  like  a joy.  She  liked,  she  said, 

To  dazzle  black  her  sight  against  the  sky, 

For  then,  it  seemed,  some  grand  blind  Love  came  down, 
And  groped  her  out,  and  clasped  her  with  a kiss ; 

She  learnt  God  that  way,  and  was  beat  for  it 
Whenever  she  went  home, — yet  came  again, 

As  surely  as  the  trapped  hare,  getting  free, 

Returns  to  his  form.  This  grand  blind  Love,  she  said, 
This  skyey  father  and  mother  both  in  one, 

Instructed  her  and  civilised  her  more 
Than  even  Sunday-school  did  afterward, 

To  which  a lady  sent  her  to  learn  books 

And  sit  upon  a long  bench  in  a row 

With  other  children.  Well,  she  laughed  sometimes 

To  see  them  laugh  and  laugh  and  maul  their  texts ; 

But  ofter  she  was  sorrowful  with  noise 
And  wondered  if  their  mothers  beat  them  hard 
That  ever  they  should  laugh  so.  There  was  one 
She  loved  indeed, — Rose  Bell,  a seven  years*  child 
So  pretty  and  clever,  who  read  syllables 
When  Marian  was  at  letters  ; she  would  laugh 
At  nothing — hold  your  finger  up,  she  laughed, 

Then  shook  her  curls  down  over  eyes  and  mouth 
To  hide  her  make-mirth  from  the  schoolmaster : 

And  Rose’s  pelting  glee,  as  frank  as  rain 
On  cherry-blossoms,  brightened  Marian  too, 


122 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


To  see  another  merry  whom  she  loved. 

She  whispered  once  (the  children  side  by  side, 

With  mutual  arms  entwined  about  their  necks) 

4 Your  mother  lets  you  laugh  so  ?’  4 Ay,’  said  Rose, 

4 She  lets  me.  She  was  dug  into  the  ground 
Six  years  since,  I being  but  a yearling  wean. 

Such  mothers  let  us  play  and  lose  our  time, 

And  never  scold  nor  beat  us  ! don’t  you  wish 
You  had  one  like  that  ?’  There,  Marian  breaking  oh 
Looked  suddenly  in  my  face.  4 Poor  Rose,’  said  she, 

4 1 heard  her  laugh  last  night  in  Oxford  Street. 

I ’d  pour  out  half  my  blood  to  stop  that  laugh. 

Poor  Rose,  poor  Rose !’  said  Marian. 

She  resumed. 

It  tried  her,  when  she  had  learnt  at  Sunday-school 
What  God  was,  what  he  wanted  from  us  all, 

And  how  in  choosing  sin  we  vexed  the  Christ, 

To  go  straight  home  and  hear  her  father  pull 
The  Name  down  on  us  from  the  thunder-shelf 
Then  drink  away  his  soul  into  the  dark 
From  seeing  judgment.  Father,  mother,  home, 

Were  God  and  heaven  reversed  to  her : the  more 
She  knew  of  Right,  the  more  she  guessed  their  wrong 
Her  price  paid  down  for  knowledge,  was  to  know 
The  vileness  of  her  kindred : through  her  heart, 

Her  filial  and  tormented  heart,  henceforth, 

They  struck  their  blows  at  virtue.  Oh,  ’t  is  hard 

To  learn  you  have  a father  up  in  heaven 

By  a gathering  certain  sense  of  being,  on  earth, 

Still  worse  than  orphaned : ’t  is  too  heavy  a grief, 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


123 


The  having  to  thank  God  for  such  a joy  ! 

And  so  passed  Marian’s  life  from  year  to  year. 

Her  parents  took  her  with  them  when  they  tramped, 
Dodged  lanes  and  heaths,  frequented  towns  and  fairs, 
And  once  went  farther  and  saw  Manchester, 

And  once  the  sea,  that  blue  end  of  the  world, 

That  fair  scroll-finis  of  a wicked  book, — 

And  twice  a prison, — back  at  intervals, 

Returning  to  the  hills.  Hills  draw  like  heaven, 

And  stronger  sometimes,  holding  out  their  hands 
To  pull  you  from  the  vile  flats  up  to  them. 

And  though  perhaps  these  strollers  still  strolled  back, 
As  sheep  do,  simply  that  they  knew  the  way, 

They  certainly  felt  bettered  unaware 
Emerging  from  the  social  smut  of  towns 
To  wipe  their  feet  clean  on  the  mountain  turf. 

In  which  long  wanderings,  Marian  lived  and  learned, 
Endured  and  learned.  The  people  on  the  roads 
Would  stop  and  ask  her  why  her  eyes  outgrew 
Her  cheeks,  and  if  she  meant  to  lodge  the  birds 
In  all  that  hair ; and  then  they  lifted  her, 

The  miller  in  his  cart,  a mile  or  twain, 

The  butcher’s  boy  on  horseback.  Often  too 
The  pedlar  stopped,  and  tapped  her  on  the  head 
With  absolute  forefinger,  brown  and  ringed, 

And  asked  if  peradventure  she  could  read, 

And  when  she  answered  ‘ ay,’  would  toss  her  down 
Some  stray  odd  volume  from  his  heavy  pack, 

A Thomson’s  Seasons,  mulcted  of  the  Spring, 


124 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


Or  half  a play  of  Shakspeare’s,  tom  across, 

(She  had  to  guess  the  bottom  of  a page 
By  just  the  top  sometimes, — as  difficult, 

As,  sitting  on  the  moon,  to  guess  the  earth  !) 

Or  else  a sheaf  of  leaves  (for  that  small  Ruth’s 
Small  gleanings)  torn  out  from  the  heart  of  books, 
From  Churchyard  Elegies  and  Edens  Lost, 

From  Burns,  and  Bunyan,  Selkirk,  and  Tom  Jones, — 

’T  was  somewhat  hard  to  keep  the  things  distinct, 

And  oft  the  jangling  influence  jarred  the  child 

Like  looking  at  a sunset  full  of  grace 

Through  a pothouse  window  while  the  drunken  oaths 

Went  on  behind  her.  But  she  weeded  out 

Her  book-leaves,  threw  away  the  leaves  that  hurt, 

(First  tore  them  small,  that  none  should  find  a word) 

And  made  a nosegay  of  the  sweet  and  good 

To  fold  within  her  breast,  and  pore  upon 

At  broken  moments  of  the  noontide  glare, 

When  leave  was  given  her  to  untie  her  cloak 
And  rest  upon  the  dusty  highway’s  bank 
From  the  road’s  dust : or  oft,  the  journey  done. 

Some  city  friend  would  lead  her  by  the  hand 
To  hear  a lecture  at  an  institute. 

And  thus  she  had  grown,  this  Marian  Erie  of  ours, 

To  no  book-learning, — she  was  ignorant 
Of  authors, — not  in  earshot  of  the  things 
Out-spoken  o’er  the  heads  of  common  men 
By  men  who  are  uncommon, — but  within 
The  cadenced  hum  of  such,  and  capable 
Of  catching  from  the  fringes  of  the  wind 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


Some  fragmentary  phrases,  here  and  there, 

Of  that  fine  mnsic, — which,  being  carried  in 
To  her  sonl,  had  reproduced  itself  afresh 
In  finer  motions  of  the  lips  and  lids. 

She  said,  in  speaking  of  it,  4 If  a flower 
Were  thrown  yon  out  of  heaven  at  intervals, 

Yon ’d  soon  attain  to  a trick  of  looking  np, — 

And  so  with  her.’  She  counted  me  her  years, 

Till  / felt  old ; and  then  she  counted  me 
Her  sorrowful  pleasures,  till  I felt  ashamed. 

She  told  me  she  was  fortunate  and  calm 
On  such  and  such  a season,  sate  and  sewed, 

With  no  one  to  break  up  her  crystal  thoughts, 

While  rhymes  from  lovely  poems  span  around 
Their  ringing  circles  of  ecstatic  tune, 

Beneath  the  moistened  finger  of  the  Hour. 

Her  parents  called  her  a strange,  sickly  child, 

Not  good  for  much,  and  given  to  sulk  and  stare, 

And  smile  into  the  hedges  and  the'clouds, 

And  tremble  if  one  shook  her  from  her  fit 
By  any  blow,  or  word  even.  Out-door  jobs 
Went  ill  with  her,  and  household  quiet  work 
She  was  not  born  to.  Had  they  kept  the  north, 
They  might  have  had  their  pennyworth  out  of  her 
Like  other  parents,  in  the  factories, 

(Your  children  work  for  you,  not  you  for  them, 

Or  else  they  better  had  been  choked  with  air 
The  first  breath  drawn ;)  but,  in  this  trampling  life, 
Was  nothing  to  be  done  with  such  a child 


126 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


But  tramp  and  tramp.  And  yet  sire  knitted  hose 
Not  ill,  and  was  not  dull  at  needlework  ; 

And  all  the  country  people  gave  her  pence 
For  darning  stockings  past  their  natural  age, 

And  patching  petticoats  from  old  to  new, 

And  other  light  work  done  for  thrifty  wives. 

One  day,  said  Marian, — the  sun  shone  that  day — 

Her  mother  had  been  badly  beat,  and  felt 
The  bruises  sore  about  her  wretched  soul, 

(That  must  have  been)  : she  came  in  suddenly, 

And  snatching  in  a sort  of  breathless  rage 
Her  daughter’s  headgear  comb,  let  down  the  hair 
Upon  her  like  a sudden  waterfall, 

Then  drew  her  drenched  and  passive  by  the  arm 
Outside  the  hut  they  lived  in.  When  the  child 
Could  clear  her  blinded  face  from  all  that  stream 
Of  tresses  . . there,  a man  stood,  with  beast’s  eyes 
That  seemed  as  they  would  swallow  her  alive 
Complete  in  body  and  spirit,  hair  and  all, — 

And  burning  stertorous  breath  that  hurt  her  cheek, 

He  breathed  so  near.  The  mother  held  her  tight, 
Saying  hard  between  her  teeth — 4 Why  wench,  why 
wench, 

The  squire  speaks  to  you  now — the  squire ’s  too  good  ; 
He  means  to  set  you  up,  and  comfort  us. 

Be  mannerly  at  least.’  The  child  turned  round 
And  looked  up  piteous  in  the  mother’s  face, 

(Be  sure  that  mother’s  death-bed  will  not  want 
Another  devil  to  damn,  than  such  a look) 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


127 


4 Oh,  mother !’  then,  with  desperate  glance  to  heaven, 

4 God,  free  me  from  my  mother,’  she  shrieked  ont, 

4 These  mothers  are  too  dreadful.’  And,  with  force 
As  passionate  as  fear,  she  tore  her  hands 
Like  lilies  from  the  rocks,  from  hers  and  his 
And  sprang  down,  hounded  headlong  down  the  steep, 
Away  from  both — away,  if  possible, 

As  far  as  God, — away ! They  yelled  at  her, 

As  famished  hounds  at  a hare.  She  heard  them  yell ; 
She  felt  her  name  hiss  after  her  from  the  hills, 

Like  shot  from  guns.  On,  on.  And  now  she  had  cast 
The  voices  off  with  the  uplands.  On.  Mad  fear 
Was  running  in  her  feet  and  killing  the  ground  ; 

The  white  roads  curled  as  if  she  burnt  them  up, 

The  green  fields  melted,  wayside  trees  fell  back 
To  make  room  for  her.  Then  her  head  grew  vexed  ; 
Trees,  fields,  turned  on  her  and  ran  after  her  ; 

She  heard  the  quick  pants  of  the  hills  behind, 

Their  keen  air  pricked  her  neck  : she  had  lost  her  feet, 
Could  run  no  more,  yet  somehow  went  as  fast, 

The  horizon  red  ’twixt  steeples  in  the  east 
So  sucked  her  forward,  forward,  while  her  heart 
Kept  swelling,  swelling,  till  it  swelled  so  big 
It  seemed  to  fill  her  body, — when  it  burst 
And  overflowed  the  world  and  swamped  the  light ; 

4 And  now  I am  dead  and  safe,’  thought  Marian  Erie — 
She  had  dropped,  she  had  fainted. 

As  the  sense  returned, 
The  night  had  passed — not  life’s  night.  She  was  ’warq 
Of  heavy  tumbling  motions,  creaking  wheels, 


128 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


Tlie  driver  shouting  to  the  lazy  team 
That  swung  their  rankling  bells  against  her  brain, 
While,  through  the  waggon’s  coverture  and  chinks, 
The  cruel  yellow  morning  pecked  at  her 
Alive  or  dead  upon  the  straw  inside,— 

At  which  her  soul  ached  back  into  the  dark 
And  prayed,  ‘ no  more  of  that.5  A waggoner 
Had  found  her  in  a ditch  beneath  the  moon, 

As  white  as  moonshine  save  for  the  oozing  blood. 

At  first  he  thought  her  dead  ; but  when  he  had  wiped 
The  mouth  and  heard  it  sigh,  he  raised  her  up, 

And  laid  her  in  his  waggon  in  the  straw, 

And  so  conveyed  her  to  the  distant  town 
To  which  his  business  called  himself,  and  left 
That  heap  of  misery  at  the  hospital. 

She  stirred ; — the  place  seemed  new  and  strange  as  death 
The  white  strait  bed,  with  others  strait  and  white, 
Like  graves  dug  side  by  side  at  measured  lengths, 

And  quiet  people  walking  in  and  out 
With  wonderful  low  voices  and  soft  steps 
And  apparitional  equal  care  for  each, 

Astonished  her  with  order,  silence,  law. 

And  when  a gentle  hand  held  out  a cup, 

She  took  it,  as  you  do  at  sacrament, 

Half  awed,  half  melted, — not  being  used,  indeed, 

To  so  much  love  as  makes  the  form  of  love 
And  courtesy  of  manners.  Delicate  drinks 
And  rare  white  bread,  to  which  some  dying  eyes 
Were  turned  in  observation.  0 my  God, 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


129 


How  sick  we  must  be,  ere  we  make  men  just ! 

I tbink  it  frets  the  saints  in  heaven  to  see 
How  many  desolate  creatures  on  the  earth 
Have  learnt  the  simple  dues  of  fellowship 
And  social  comfort,  in  a hospital, 

As  Marian  did.  She  lay  there,  stunned,  half  tranced. 
And  wished,  at  intervals  of  growing  sense, 

She  might  be  sicker  yet,  if  sickness  made 
The  world  so  marvellous  kind,  the  air  so  hushed, 

And  all  her  wake -time  quiet  as  a sleep ; 

For  now  she  understood  (as  such  things  were) 

How  sickness  ended  very  oft  in  heaven 
Among  the  unspoken  raptures  : — yet  more  sick, 

And  surelier  happy.  Then  she  dropped  her  lids. 

And,  folding  up  her  hands  as  flowers  at  night, 

Would  lose  no  moment  of  the  blessed  time. 

She  lay  and  seethed  in  fever  many  weeks, 

But  youth  was  strong  and  overcame  the  test ; 

Revolted  soul  and  flesh  were  reconciled 
And  fetched  back  to  the  necessary  day 
And  daylight  duties.  She  could  creep  about 
The  long  bare  rooms,  and  stare  out  drearily 
From  any  narrow  window  on  the  street, 

Till  some  one  who  had  nursed  her  as  a friend 
Said  coldly  to  her,  as  an  enemy, 

‘ She  had  leave  to  go  next  week,  being  well  enough,’ 
(While  only  her  heart  ached.)  4 Go  next  week,’  thought 
she, 

‘ Next  week ! how  would  it  be  with  her  next  week, 


K 


130 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


Let  out  into  that  terrible  street  alone 
Among  the  pushing  people,  , . to  go  . . where  T 

One  day,  the  last  before  the  dreaded  last, 

Among  the  convalescents,  like  herself 
Prepared  to  go  next  morning,  she  sate  dumb, 

And  heard  half  absently  the  women  talk, — 

How  one  was  famished  for  her  baby’s  cheeks, 

‘ The  little  wretch  would  know  her ! a year  old 
And  lively,  like  his  father  !’ — one  was  keen 
To  get  to  work,  and  fill  some  clamorous  mouths ; 
And  one  was  tender  for  her  dear  goodman 
Who  had  missed  her  sorely, — and  one,  querulous  . . 
4 Would  pay  backbiting  neighbours  who  had  dared 
To  talk  about  her  as  already  dead,’ — 

And  one  was  proud  . . 6 and  if  her  sweetheart  Luke 
Had  left  her  for  a ruddier  face  than  hers, 

(The  gossip  would  be  seen  through  at  a glance) 
Sweet  riddance  of  such  sweethearts — let  him  hang  I 
’T  were  good  to  have  been  sick  for  such  an  end.’ 

And  while  they  talked,  and  Marian  felt  the  worse 
For  having  missed  the  worst  of  all  their  wrongs, 

A visitor  was  ushered  through  the  wards 
And  paused  among  the  talkers,  4 When  he  looked 
It  was  as  if  he  spoke,  and  when  he  spoke 
He  sang  perhaps,’  said  Marian ; 4 could  she  tell? 
She  only  knew  ’ (so  much  she  had  chronicled, 

As  seraphs  might  the  making  of  the  sun) 

4 That  he  who  came  and  spake,  was  Eomney  Leigh, 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


131 


And  then  and  there  she  saw  and  heard  him  first.’ 

And  when  it  was  her  turn  to  have  the  face 

Upon  her,  all  those  buzzing  pallid  lips 

Being  satisfied  with  comfort — when  he  changed 

To  Marian,  saying  ‘ And  you  ? you  ’re  going,  where  ?’ — 

She,  moveless  as  a worm  beneath  a stone 

Which  some  one’s  stumbling  foot  has  spurned  aside, 

Writhed  suddenly,  astonished  with  the  light, 

And  breaking  into  sobs  cried,  ‘ Where  I go  ? 

None  asked  me  till  this  moment.  Can  I say 
Where  I go, — when  it  has  not  seemed  worth  while 
To  God  himself,  who  thinks  of  every  one, 

To  think  of  me  and  fix  where  I shall  go  ?’ 

‘ So  young,’  he  gently  asked  her,  ‘ you  have  lost 
Your  father  and  your  mother  ?’ 

‘ Both,’  she  said, 

‘ Both  lost ! my  father  was  burnt  up  with  gin 
Or  ever  I sucked  milk,  and  so  is  lost. 

My  mother  sold  me  to  a man  last  month, 

And  so  my  mother ’s  lost,  ’t  is  manifest. 

And  I,  who  fled  from  her  for  miles  and  miles, 

As  if  I had  caught  sight  of  the  fire  of  hell 
Through  some  wild  gap,  (she  was  my  mother,  sir) 

It  seems  I shall  be  lost  too,  presently, 

And  so  we  end,  all  three  of  us.’ 

‘ Poor  child,’ 

He  said, — with  such  a pity  in  his  voice, 

It  soothed  her  more  than  her  own  tears,— 4 poor  child ! 


132 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


’T'is  simple  that  betrayal  by  mother’s  love 
Should  bring  despair  of  God’s  too.  Yet  be  taught, 

He ’s  better  to  ns  than  many  mothers  are, 

And  children  cannot  wander  beyond  reach 
Of  the  sweep  of  his  white  raiment.  Touch  and  hold  ! 
And  if  you  weep  still,  weep  where  John  was  laid 
While  Jesus  loved  him.’ 

1 She  could  say  the  words,’ 
She  told  me,  4 exactly  as  he  uttered  them 
A year  back,  since  in  any  doubt  or  dark 
They  came  out  like  the  stars,  and  shone  on  her 
With  just  their  comfort.  Common  words,  perhaps ; 
The  ministers  in  church  might  say  the  same  ; 

But  he,  he  made  the  church  with  what  he  spoke, — 
The  difference  was  the  miracle,’  said  she. 

Then  catching  up  her  smile  to  ravishment, 

She  added  quickly,  4 1 repeat  his  words, 

But  not  his  tones  : can  any  one  repeat 
The  music  of  an  organ,  out  of  church  ? 

And  when  he  said  4 poor  child,’  I shut  my  eyes 
To  feel  how  tenderly  his  voice  broke  through, 

As  the  ointment-box  broke  on  the  Holy  feet 
To  let  out  the  rich  medicative  nard.’ 

She  told  me  how  he  had  raised  and  rescued  her 
With  reverent  pity,  as,  in  touching  grief, 

He  touched  the  wounds  of  Christ, — and  made  her  feel 
More  self-respecting.  Hope,  he  called,  belief 
In  God, — work,  worship, — therefore  let  us  pray ! 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


133 


And  thus,  to  snatch  her  soul  from  atheism, 

And  keep  it  stainless  from  her  mother’s  face, 

He  sent  her  to  a famous  sempstress-house 
Far  off  in  London,  there  to  work  and  hope. 

With  that,  they  parted.  She  kept  sight  of  Heaven, 

But  not  of  Romney.  He  had  good  to  do 
To  others  : through  the  days  and  through  the  nights 
She  sewed  and  sewed  and  sewed.  She  drooped  sometimes, 
And  wondered,  while  along  the  tawny  light 
She  struck  the  new  thread  into  her  needle’s  eye, 

How  people  without  mothers  on  the  hills 
Could  choose  the  town  to  live  in  ! — then  she  drew 
The  stitch,  and  mused  how  Romney’s  face  would  look, 
And  if ’t  were  likely  he ’d  remember  hers 
When  they  two  had  their  meeting  after  death. 


FOURTH  BOOK. 


They  met  still  sooner.  ’T  was  a year  from  thence 
That  Lucy  Gresham,  the  sick  sempstress  girl, 

Who  sewed  by  Marian’s  chair  so  still  and  quick, 

And  leant  her  head  upon  its  back  to  cough 
More  freely,  when,  the  mistress  turning  round, 

The  others  took  occasion  to  laugh  out, 

Gave  up  at  last.  Among  the  workers,  spoke 
A bold  girl  with  black  eyebrows  and  red  lips ; 

‘ You  know  the  news  ? Who ’s  dying,  do  you  think 
Our  Lucy  Gresham.  I expected  it 
As  little  as  Nell  Hart’s  wedding.  Blush  not,  Nell, 
Thy  curls  be  red  enough  without  thy  cheeks, 

And,  some  day,  there  ’ll  be  found  a man  to  dote 
On  red  curls.  —Lucy  Gresham  swooned  last  night, 
Dropped  sudden  in  the  street  while  going  home ; 
And  now  the  baker  says,  who  took  her  up 
And  laid  her  by  her  grandmother  in  bed, 

He  ’ll  give  her  a week  to  die  in.  Pass  the  silk. 

Let ’s  hope  he  gave  her  a loaf  too,  within  reach, 

For  otherwise  they  ’ll  starve  before  they  die, 


136 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


That  funny  pair  of  bedfellows  ! Miss  Bell, 

I ’ll  thank  you  for  the  scissors.  The  old  crone 

Is  paralytic — that ’s  the  reason  why 

Our  Lucy’s  thread  went  faster  than  her  breath, 

Which  went  too  quick,  we  all  know.  Marian  Erie  ! 
Why,  Marian  Erie,  you  ’re  not  the  fool  to  cry  ? 

Your  tears  spoil  Lady  Waldemar’s  new  dress, 

You  piece  of  pity !’ 

Marian  rose  up  straight, 

And,  breaking  through  the  talk  and  through  the  work, 
Went  outward,  in  the  face  of  their  surprise, 

To  Lucy’s  home,  to  nurse  her  back  to  life 
Or  down  to  death.  She  knew,  by  such  an  act, 

All  place  and  grace  were  forfeit  in  the  house, 

Whose  mistress  would  supply  the  missing  hand 
With  necessary,  not  inhuman  haste, 

And  take  no  blame.  But  pity,  too,  had  dues  : 

She  could  not  leave  a solitary  soul 
To  founder  in  the  dark,  wdiile  she  sate  still 
And  lavished  stitches  on  a lady’s  hem 
As  if  no  other  work  were  paramount. 

‘ Why,  God,’  thought  Marian,  ‘ has  a missing  hand 
This  moment ; Lucy  wants  a drink,  perhaps. 

Let  others  miss  me ! never  miss  me,  God !’ 

So  Marian  sate  by  Lucy’s  bed,  content 
With  duty,  and  was  strong,  for  recompense, 

To  hold  the  lamp  of  human  love  arm-high 
To  catch  the  death-strained  eyes  and  comfort  them, 
Until  the  angels,  on  the  luminous  side 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


137 


Of  death,  had  got  theirs  ready.  And  she  said, 

If  Lucy  thanked  her  sometimes,  called  her  kind, 

It  touched  her  strangely.  4 Marian  Erie,  called  kind  ! 
What,  Marian,  beaten  and  sold,  who  could  not  die ! 

’T  is  verily  good  fortune  to  be  kind. 

Ah  you,’  she  said,  4 who  are  born  to  such  a grace, 

Be  sorry  for  the  unlicensed  class,  the  poor, 

Reduced  to  think  the  best  good  fortune  means 
That  others,  simply,  should  be  kind  to  them.’ 

From  sleep  to  sleep  when  Lucy  had  slid  away 
So  gently,  like  the  light  upon  a hill, 

Of  which  none  names  the  moment  that  it  goes 
Though  all  see  when ’t  is  gone, — a man  came  in 
And  stood  beside  the  bed.  The  old  idiot  wretch 
Screamed  feebly,  like  a baby  overlain, 

4 Sir,  sir,  you  won’t  mistake  me  for  the  corpse  ? 

Don’t  look  at  me , sir ! never  bury  me ! 

Although  I lie  here  I ’m  alive  as  you, 

Except  my  legs  and  arms, — I eat  and  drink 
And  understand, — (that  you  ’re  the  gentleman 
Who  fits  the  funerals  up,  Heaven  speed  you,  sir,) 

And  certainly  I should  be  livelier  still 
If  Lucy  here  . . sir,  Lucy  is  the  corpse  . . 

Had  worked  more  properly  to  buy  me  wine ; 

But  Lucy,  sir,  was  always  slow  at  work, 

I shan’t  lose,  much  by  Lucy.  Marian  Erie, 

Speak  up  and  show  the  gentleman  the  corpse.’ 

And  then  a voice  said,  4 Marian  Erie.’  She  rose  ; 


138 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


It  was  the  hour  for  angels — there,  stood  hers  ! 

She  scarcely  marvelled  to  see  Eomney  Leigh. 

As  light  November  snows  to  empty  nests, 

As  grass  to  graves,  as  moss  to  mildewed  stones, 

As  July  suns  to  ruins,  through  the  rents, 

As  ministering  spirits  to  mourners,  through  a loss, 

As  Heaven  itself  to  men,  through  pangs  of  death, 

He  came  uncalled  wherever  grief  had  come. 

‘ And  so,’  said  Marian  Erie,  ‘ we  met  anew,’ 

And  added  softly,  ‘ so,  we  shall  not  part.’ 

He  was  not  angry  that  she  had  left  the  house 
Wherein  he  placed  her.  Well — she  had  feared  it  might 
Have  vexed  him.  Also,  when  he  found  her  set 
On  keeping,  though  the  dead  was  out  of  sight, 

That  half-dead,  half-live  body  left  behind 

With  cankerous  heart  and  flesh,  which  took  your  best 

And  cursed  you  for  the  little  good  it  did, 

(Could  any  leave  the  bedrid  wretch  alone, 

So  joyless  she  was  thankless  even  to  God, 

Much  more  to  you  ?)  he  did  not  say ’t  was  well, 

Yet  Marian  thought  he  did  not  take  it  ill, — 

Since  day  by  day  he  came,  and  every  day 
She  felt  within  his  utterance  and  his  eyes 
A closer,  tenderer  presence  of  the  soul, 

Until  at  last  he  said,  ‘ We  shall  not  part.’ 

On  that  same  day,  was  Marian’s  work  complete : 

She  had  smoothed  the  empty  bed,  and  swept  the  floor 
Of  coffin  sawdust,  set  the  chairs  anew 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


139 


The  dead  had  ended  gossip  in,  and  stood 
In  that  poor  room  so  cold  and  orderly, 

The  door-key  in  her  hand,  prepared  to  go 
As  they  had,  howbeit  not  their  way.  He  spoke. 

‘ Dear  Marian,  of  one  clay  God  made  ns  all, 

And  though  men  push  and  poke  and  paddle  in ’t 
(As  children  play  at  fashioning  dirt-pies) 

And  call  their  fancies  by  the  name  of  facts, 

Assuming  difference,  lordship,  privilege, 

When  all  ’s  plain  dirt, — they  come  back  to  it  at  last, 
The  first  grave-digger  proves  it  with  a spade, 

And  pats  all  even.  Need  we  wait  for  this, 

You,  Marian,  and  I,  Eomney  ?’ 

She,  at  that, 

Looked  blindly  in  his  face,  as  when  one  looks 
Through  driving  autumn-rains  to  find  the  sky. 

He  went  on  speaking. 

‘ Marian,  I being  bom 
What  men  call  noble,  and  you,  issued  from 
The  noble  people, — though  the  tyrannous  sword 
Which  pierced  Christ’s  heart,  has  cleft  the  world  in  twain 
’Twixt  class  and  class,  opposing  rich  to  poor, 

Shall  we  keep  parted?  Not  so.  Let  us  lean 
And  strain  together  rather,  each  to  each, 

Compress  the  red  lips  of  this  gaping  wound 
As  far  as  two  souls  can, — ay,  lean  and  league, 

I from  my  superabundance, — from  your  want 
You, — joining  in  a protest  ’gainst  the  wrong 
On  both  sides.’ 


140 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


All  the  rest,  he  held  her  hand 
In  speaking,  which  confused  the  sense  of  much. 

Her  heart  against  his  words  heat  out  so  thick, 

They  might  as  well  he  written  on  the  dust 
TV  here  some  poor  hird,  escaping  from  hawk’s  heak, 

Has  dropped  and  heats  its  shuddering  wings, — the  lines 
Are  ruhhed  so, — yet  5t  was  something  like  to  this, 

— 4 That  they  two,  standing  at  the  two  extremes 
Of  social  classes,  had  received  one  seal, 

Been  dedicate  and  drawn  heyond  themselves 
To  mercy  and  ministration, — he,  indeed, 

Through  what  he  knew,  and  she,  through  what  she  felt, 
He,  hy  man’s  conscience,  she,  hy  woman’s  heart, 
Relinquishing  their  several  ’vantage  posts 
Of  wealthy  ease  and  honourable  toil, 

To  work  with  God  at  love.  And  since  God  willed 
That  putting  out  his  hand  to  touch  this  ark 
He  found  a woman’s  hand  there,  he ’d  accept 
The  sign  too,  hold  the  tender  fingers  fast, 

And  say,  4 My  fellow-worker,  he  my  wife  !’  ’ 

She  told  the  tale  with  simple,  rustic  turns, — 

Strong  leaps  of  meaning  in  her  sudden  eyes 
That  took  the  gaps  of  any  imperfect  phrase 
Of  the  unschooled  speaker  : I have  rather  writ 
The  thing  I understood  so,  than  the  thing 
I heard  so.  And  I cannot  render  right 
Her  quick  gesticulation,  wild  yet  soft, 

Self-startled  from  the  habitual  mood  she  used, 

Half  sad,  half  languid, — like  dumb  creatures  (now 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


141 


A rustling  bird,  and  now  a wandering  deer, 

Or  squirrel  ’gainst  the  oak-gloom  dashing  up 
His  sidelong  burnished  head,  in  just  her  way 
Of  savage  spontaneity,)  that  stir 
Abruptly  the  green  silence  of  the  woods, 

And  make  it  stranger,  holier,  more  profound  ; 

As  Nature’s  general  heart  confessed  itself 
Of  life,  and  then  fell  backward  on  repose. 

I kissed  the  lips  that  ended. — ‘ So  indeed 
He  loves  you,  Marian  ?’ 

‘ Loves  me  !’  She  looked  up 
With  a child’s  wonder  when  you  ask  him  first 
Who  made  the  sun — a puzzled  blush,  that  grew, 

Then  broke  off  in  a rapid  radiant  smile 
Of  sure  solution.  ‘ Loves  me  ! he  loves  all, — 

And  me,  of  course.  He  had  not  asked  me  else 
To  work  with  him  for  ever  and  be  his  wife.’ 

Her  words  reproved  me.  This  perhaps  was  love- 
To  have  its  hands  too  full  of  gifts  to  give, 

For  putting  out  a hand  to  take  a gift ; 

To  love  so  much,  the  perfect  round  of  love 
Includes,  in  strict  conclusion,  being  loved  ; 

As  Eden-dew  went  up  and  fell  again, 

Enough  for  watering  Eden.  Obviously 
She  had  not  thought  about  his  love  at  all : 

The  cataracts  of  her  soul  had  poured  themselves, 

And  risen  self-crowned  in  rainbow  : would  she  ask 
Who  crowned  her  ? — it  sufficed  that  she  was  crowned. 


142 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


With,  women  of  my  class ’t  is  otherwise  : 

We  haggle  for  the  small  change  of  our  gold, 

And  so  much  love  accord  for  so  much  love, 
Rialto-prices.  Are  we  therefore  wrong  ? 

If  marriage  he  a contract,  look  to  it  then, 
Contracting  parties  should  he  equal,  just, 

But  if,  a simple  fealty  on  one  side, 

A mere  religion, — right  to  give,  is  all, 

And  certain  hrides  of  Europe  duly  ask 
To  mount  the  pile  as  Indian  widows  do, 

The  spices  of  their  tender  youth  heaped  up, 

The  jewels  of  their  gracious  virtues  worn, 

More  gems,  more  glory, — to  consume  entire 
For  a living  husband : as  the  man ’s  alive, 

Not  dead,  the  woman’s  duty  hy  so  much, 
Advanced  in  England  heyond  Hindostan. 

I sate  there  musing,  till  she  touched  my  hand 
With  hers,  as  softly  as  a strange  white  hird 
She  feared  to  startle  in  touching.  ‘ You  are  kind. 
But  are  you,  peradventure,  vexed  at  heart 
Because  your  cousin  takes  me  for  a wife  ? 

I know  I am  not  worthy — nay,  in  truth, 

I ’m  glad  on ’t,  since,  for  that,  he  chooses  me. 

He  likes  the  poor  things  of  the  world  the  hest ; 

I would  not  therefore,  if  I could,  he  rich. 

It  pleasures  him  to  stoop  for  buttercups  ; 

I would  not  he  a rose  upon  the  wall 
A queen  might  stop  at,  near  the  palace-door, 

To  say  to  a courtier, I * *  4 Pluck  that  rose  for  me, 


AUEOEA  LEIGH. 


113 


‘ It ’s  prettier  than  the  rest.’  0 Romney  Leigh ! 

I ’d  rather  far  he  trodden  by  his  foot, 

Than  lie  in  a great  queen’s  bosom.’ 

Out  of  breath 


She  paused. 

4 Sweet  Marian,  do  you  disavow 
The  roses  with  that  face  ?’ 

She  dropt  her  head 

As  if  the  wind  had  caught  that  flower  of  her 
And  bent  it  in  the  garden, — then  looked  up 
With  grave  assurance.  4 Well,  you  think  me  bold  ! 
But  so  we  all  are,  when  we  ’re  praying  God. 

And  if  I ’m  bold — yet,  lady,  credit  me, 

That,  since  I know  myself  for  what  I am, 

Much  fitter  for  his  handmaid  than  his  wife, 

I ’ll  prove  the  handmaid  and  the  wife  at  once, 
Serve  tenderly,  and  love  obediently, 

And  be  a worthier  mate,  perhaps,  than  some 
Who  are  wooed  in  silk  among  their  learned  books ; 
While  I shall  set  myself  to  read  his  eyes, 

Till  such  grow  plainer  to  me  than  the  French 
To  wisest  ladies.  Do  you  think  I ’ll  miss 
A letter,  in  the  spelling  of  his  mind  ? 

No  more  than  they  do  when  they  sit  and  write 
Their  flying  words  with  flickering  wild-fowl  tails, 
Nor  ever  pause  to  ask  how  many  £s, 

Should  that  be  y or  i,  they  know ’t  so  well : 

I ’ve  seen  them  writing,  when  I brought  a dress 
And  waited, — floating  out  their  soft  white  hands 
On  shining  paper.  But  they  ’re  hard  sometimes, 


144 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


For  all  those  hands ! — we ’ve  used  out  many  nights, 
And  worn  the  yellow  daylight  into  shreds 
Which  flapped  and  shivered  down  our  aching  eyes 
Till  night  appeared  more  tolerable,  just 
That  pretty  ladies  might  look  beautiful, 

"Who  said  at  last  . . 4 You  ’re  lazy  in  that  house  ! 

4 You  ’re  slow  in  sending  home  the  work, — I count 
4 1 ’ve  waited  near  an  hour  for ’t.’  Pardon  me, 

I do  not  blame  them,  madam,  nor  misprize ; 

They  are  fair  and  gracious  ; ay,  but  not  like  you, 
Since  none  but  you  has  Mister  Leigh’s  own  blood 
Both  noble  and  gentle, — and,  without  it  . . well, 
They  are  fair,  I said  ; so  fair,  it  scarce  seems  strange 
That,  flashing  out  in  any  looking-glass 
The  wonder  of  their  glorious  brows  and  breasts, 
They  ’re  charmed  so,  they  forget  to  look  behind 
And  mark  how  pale  we ’ve  grown  we  pitiful 
Remainders  of  the  world.  And  so  perhaps 
If  Mister  Leigh  had  chosen  a wife  from  these, 

She  might,  although  he ’s  better  than  her  best 
And  dearly  she  would  know  it,  steal  a thought 
Which  should  be  all  his,  an  eye-glance  from  his  face, 
To  plunge  into  the  mirror  opposite 
In  search  of  her  own  beauty’s  pearl ; while  I . . 

Ah,  dearest  lady,  serge  will  outweigh  silk 
For  winter-wear  when  bodies  feel  a-cold, 

And  I ’ll  be  a true  wife  to  your  cousin  Leigh.’ 

Before  I answered  he  was  there  himself. 

I think  he  had  been  standing  in  the  room 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


145 


And  listened  probably  to  half  her  talk, 

Arrested,  turned  to  stone, — as  white  as  stone. 
Will  tender  sayings  make  men  look  so  white? 

He  loves  her  then  profoundly. 

‘ You  are  here, 

Aurora?  Here  I meet  you!’ — We  clasped  hands. 

4 Even  so,  dear  Eomney.  Lady  Waldemar 
Has  sent  me  in  haste  to  find  a cousin  of  mine 
Who  shall  be.’ 


4 Lady  Waldemar  is  good/ 

4 Here ’s  one,  at  least,  who  is  good/  I sighed,  and  touched 
Poor  Marian’s  happy  head,  as  doglike  she 
Most  passionately  patient,  waited  on, 

A-tremble  for  her  turn  of  greeting  words  ; 

4 1 ’ve  sate  a full  hour  with  your  Marian  Erie, 

And  learnt  the  thing  by  heart, — and  from  my  heart 
Am  therefore  competent  to  give  you  thanks 
For  such  a cousin.’ 

4 You  accept  at  last 
A gift  from  me,  Aurora,  without  scorn  ? 

At  last  I please  you  ?’  — How  his  voice  was  changed 

4 You  cannot  please  a woman  against  her  will. 

And  once  you  vexed  me.  Shall  we  speak  of  that  ? 

We  ’ll  say,  then,  you  were  noble  in  it  all 

And  I not  ignorant— let  it  pass.  And  now 

You  please  me,  Eomney,  when  you  please  yourself ; 


L 


146 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


So,  please  you,  be  fanatical  in  love, 

And  I ’m  well  pleased.  Ah,  cousin ! at  the  old  hall, 
Among  the  gallery  portraits  of  our  Leighs, 

We  shall  not  find  a sweeter  signory 
Than  this  pure  forehead’s.’ 

Not  a word  he  said. 

How  arrogant  men  are  ! — Even  philanthropists, 

Who  try  to  take  a wife  up  in  the  way 
They  put  down  a subscription-cheque, — if  once 
She  turns  and  says,  c I will  not  tax  you  so, 

Most  charitable  sir,’ — feel  ill  at  ease 

As  though  she  had  wronged  them  somehow.  I suppose 

We  women  should  remember  what  we  are, 

And  not  throw  back  an  obolus  inscribed 
With  Caesar’s  image,  lightly.  I resumed. 

c It  strikes  me,  some  of  those  sublime  Vandykes 
Were  not  too  proud  to  make  good  saints  in  heaven  : 

And  if  so,  then  they  ’re  not  too  proud  to-day, 

To  bow  down  (now  the  ruffs  are  off  their  necks) 

And  own  this  good,  true,  noble  Marian,  yours, 

And  mine,  I ’ll  say ! — For  poets  (bear  the  word) 
Half-poets  even,  are  still  whole  democrats, — 

Oh,  not  that  we  ’re  disloyal  to  the  high, 

But  loyal  to  the  low,  and  cognisant 
Of  the  less  scrutable  majesties.  For  me, 

I comprehend  your  choice,  I justify 
Your  right  in  choosing.’ 

‘ No,  no,  no,’  he  sighed, 

With  a sort  of  melancholy  impatient  scorn, 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


147 


As  some  grown  man  who  never  had  a child 
Puts  by  some  child  who  plays  at  being  a man, 

‘ You  did  not,  do  not,  cannot  comprehend 
My  choice,  my  ends,  my  motives,  nor  myself : 

No  matter  now ; we  ’ll  let  it  pass,  you  say. 

I thank  you  for  your  generous  cousinship 
Which  helps  this  present ; I accept  for  her 
Your  favourable  thoughts.  We  ’re  fallen  on  days. 
We  two  who  are  not  poets,  when  to  wed 
Requires  less  mutual  love  than  common  love 
For  two  together  to  bear  out  at  once 
Upon  the  loveless  many.  Work  in  pairs, 

In  galley-couplings  or  in  marriage-rings, 

The  difference  lies  in  the  honour,  not  the  work, — 
And  such  we  ’re  bound  to,  I and  she.  But  love, 
(You  poets  are  benighted  in  this  age, 

The  hour ’s  too  late  for  catching  even  moths, 

You  ’ve  gnats  instead,)  love  ! — love’s  fool-paradise 
Is  out  of  date,  like  Adam’s.  Set  a swan 
To  swim  the  Trenton,  rather  than  true  love 
To  float  its  fabulous  plumage  safely  down 
The  cataracts  of  this  loud  transition- time, — 

Whose  roar  for  ever  henceforth  in  my  ears 
Must  keep  me  deaf  to  music.’ 

There,  I turned 

And  kissed  poor  Marian,  out  of  discontent. 

The  man  had  baffled,  chafed  me,  till  I flung 
For  refuge  to  the  woman, — as,  sometimes, 
Impatient  of  some  crowded  room’s  close  smell. 

You  throw  a window  open  and  lean  out 


118 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


To  breathe  a long  breath  in  the  dewy  night 
And  cool  your  angry  forehead.  She,  at  least, 
Was  not  built  up  as  walls  are,  brick  by  brick, 
Each  fancy  squared,  each  feeling  ranged  by  line, 
The  very  heat  of  burning  youth  applied 
To  indurate  form  and  system  ! excellent  bricks, 

A well-built  wall, — which  stops  you  on  the  road, 
And,  into  which,  you  cannot  see  an  inch 
Although  you  beat  your  head  against  it — pshaw  ! 

‘ Adieu,’  I said,  ‘ for  this  time,  cousins  both, 

And,  cousin  Eomney,  pardon  me  the  word, 

Be  happy ! — oh,  in  some  esoteric  sense 
Of  course  ! — I mean  no  harm  in  wishing  well. 
Adieu,  my  Marian  : — may  she  come  to  me. 

Dear  Eomney,  and  be  married  from  my  house  ? 

It  is  not  part  of  your  philosophy 
To  keep  your  bird  upon  the  blackthorn  ?’ 

4 Ay, 

He  answered,  ‘ but  it  is.  I take  my  wife 
Directly  from  the  people, — and  she  comes, 

As  Austria’s  daughter  to  imperial  France, 
Betwixt  her  eagles,  blinking  not  her  race, 

From  Margaret’s  Court  at  garret-height,  to  meet 
And  wed  me  at  St.  James’s,  nor  put  off 
Her  gown  of  serge  for  that.  The  things  we  do. 
We  do  : we  ’ll  wear  no  mask,  as  if  we  blushed.’ 

‘ Dear  Eomney,  you  ’re  the  poet,’  I replied, 

But  felt  my  smile  too  mournful  for  my  word, 


AURORA  LEIGH 


149 


And  turned  and  went.  Ay,  masks,  I thought, — beware 
Of  tragic  masks  we  tie  before  the  glass, 

Uplifted  on  the  cothum  half  a yard 
Above  the  natural  stature ! we  would  play 
Heroic  parts  to  ourselves, — and  end,  perhaps, 

As  impotently  as  Athenian  wives 
Who  shrieked  in  fits  at  the  Eumenides. 

His  foot  pursued  me  down  the  stair.  ‘ At  least 
You  11  suffer  me  to  walk  with  you  beyond 
These  hideous  streets,  these  graves,  where  men  alive 
Packed  close  with  earthworms,  burr  unconsciously 
About  the  plague  that  slew  them ; let  me  go. 

The  very  women  pelt  their  souls  in  mud 
At  any  woman  who  walks  here  alone. 

How  came  you  here  alone? — you  are  ignorant/ 

We  had  a strange  and  melancholy  walk : 

The  night  came  drizzling  downward  in  dark  rain, 

And,  as  we  walked,  the  colour  of  the  time, 

The  act,  the  presence,  my  hand  upon  his  arm, 

Plis  voice  in  my  ear,  and  mine  to  my  own  sense, 
Appeared  unnatural.  We  talked  modem  books 
And  daily  papers,  Spanish  marriage-schemes 
And  English  climate — was ’t  so  cold  last  year? 

And  will  the  wind  change  by  to-morrow  mom  ? 

Can  Guizot  stand  ? is  London  full  ? is  trade 
Competitive  ? has  Dickens  turned  his  hinge 
A-pinch  upon  the  fingers  of  the  great  ? 

And  are  potatoes  to  grow  mythical 


150 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


Like  moly  ? will  the  apple  die  out  too  ? 

Which  way  is  the  wind  to-night  ? south-  east  ? due  east  ? 
We  talked  on  fast,  while  every  common  word 
Seemed  tangled  with  the  thunder  at  one  end, 

And  ready  to  pull  down  upon  our  heads 
A terror  out  of  sight.  And  yet  to  pause 
Were  surelier  mortal : we  tore  greedily  up 
All  silence,  all  the  innocent  breathing-points, 

As  if,  like  pale  conspirators  in  haste, 

We  tore  up  papers  where  our  signatures 
Imperilled  us  to  an  ugly  shame  or  death. 

I cannot  tell  you  why  it  was.  5T  is  plain 
We  had  not  loved  nor  hated : wherefore  dread 
To  spill  gunpowder  on  ground  safe  from  fire  ? 

Perhaps  we  had  lived  too  closely,  to  diverge 
So  absolutely : leave  two  clocks,  they  say, 

Wound  up  to  different  hours,  upon  one  shelf, 

And  slowly,  through  the  interior  wheels  of  each, 

The  blind  mechanic  motion  sets  itself 
A-throb  to  feel  out  for  the  mutual  time. 

It  was  not  so  with  us,  indeed : while  he 
Struck  midnight,  I kept  striking  six  at  dawn, 

While  he  marked  judgment,  I,  redemption-day ; 

And  such  exception  to  a general  law 
Imperious  upon  inert  matter  even, 

Might  make  us,  each  to  either,  insecure, 

A beckoning  mystery  or  a troubling  fear. 

I mind  me,  when  we  parted  at  the  door, 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


151 


How  strange  his  good-night  sounded, — like  good-night 
Beside  a deathbed,  where  the  morrow’s  sun 
Is  sure  to  come  too  late  for  more  good-days : 

And  all  that  night  I thought  . . 4 4 Good-night,’  said  he.’ 

And  so,  a month  passed.  Let  me  set  it  down 
At  once, — I have  been  wrong,  I have  been  wrong. 

We  are  wrong  always  when  we  think  too  much 
Of  what  we  think  or  are  : albeit  our  thoughts 
Be  verily  bitter  as  self-sacrifice, 

We  ’re  no  less  selfish.  If  we  sleep  on  rocks 
Or  roses,  sleeping  past  the  hour  of  noon 
We  ’re  lazy.  This  I write  against  myself. 

I had  done  a duty  in  the  visit  paid 
To  Marian,  and  was  ready  otherwise 
To  give  the  witness  of  my  presence  and  name 
Whenever  she  should  marry. — Which,  I thought. 
Sufficed.1  I even  had  cast  into  the  scale 
An  overweight  of  justice  toward  the  match ; 

The  Lady  Waldemar  had  missed  her  tool, 

Had  broken  it  in  the  lock  as  being  too  straight 
For  a crooked  purpose,  while  poor  Marian  Erie 
Missed  nothing  in  my  accents  or  my  acts  : 

I had  not  been  ungenerous  on  the  whole, 

Nor  yet  untender  ; so,  enough.  I felt 

Tired,  overworked  : this  marriage  somewhat  jarred  ; 

Or,  if  it  did  not,  all  the  bridal  noise, 

The  pricking  of  the  map  of  life  with  pins, 

In  schemes  of . . 4 Here  we  ’ll  go,’  and  4 There  we  ’ll  stay,’ 
And  4 Everywhere  we  ’ll  prosper  in  our  love,’ 


152 


AUKOKA  LEIGH. 


W as  scarce  my  business  : let  them  order  it  ; 

Who  else  should  care  ? I threw  myself  aside, 

As  one  who  had  done  her  work  and  shuts  her  eyes 
To  rest  the  better. 

I,  who  should  have  known, 
Forereckoned  mischief!  Where  we  disavow 
Being  keeper  to  our  brother  we  ’re  his  Cain. 

I might  have  held  that  poor  child  to  my  heart 
A little  longer ! ’t  would  have  hurt  me  much 
To  have  hastened  by  its  beats  the  ^marriage  day, 
And  kept  her  safe  meantime  from  tampering  hands 
Or,  peradventure,  traps.  What  drew  me  back 
From  telling  Romney  plainly  the  designs 
Of  Lady  Waldemar,  as  spoken  out 
To  me  . . me  ? had  I any  right,  ay,  right, 

With  womanly  compassion  and  reserve 
To  break  the  fall  of  woman’s  impudence  ? — 

To  stand  by  calmly,  knowing  what  I knew, 

And  hear  him  call  her  good? 

Distrust  that  word. 

‘ There  is  none  good  save  God,’  said  Jesus  Christ. 
If  He  once,  in  the  first  creation- week, 

Called  creatures  good, — for  ever,  afterward, 

The  Devil  only  has  done  it,  and  his  heirs, 

The  knaves  who  win  so,  and  the  fools  who  lose ; 
The  word ’s  grown  dangerous.  In  the  middle  age, 
I think  they  called  malignant  fays  and  imps 
Good  people.  A good  neighbour,  even  in  this, 

Is  fatal  sometimes, — cuts  your  morning  up 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


153 


To  mince-meat  of  the  very  smallest  talk, 

Then  helps  to  sugar  her  bohea  at  night 

With  your  reputation.  I have  known  good  wives, 

As  chaste,  or  nearly  so,  as  Potiphar’s ; 

And  good,  good  mothers,  who  would  use  a child 
To  better  an  intrigue  ; good  friends,  beside, 

(Very  good)  who  hung  succinctly  round  your  neck 
And  sucked  your  breath,  as  cats  are  fabled  to  do 
By  sleeping  infants.  And  we  all  have  known 
Good  critics  who  have  stamped  out  poet’s  hopes, 
Good  statesmen  who  pulled  ruin  on  the  state, 

Good  patriots  who  for  a theory  risked  a cause, 
Good  kings  who  disembowelled  for  a tax, 

Good  popes  who  brought  all  good  to  jeopardy, 
Good  Christians  who  sate  still  in  easy  chairs 
And  damned  the  general  world  for  standing  up. — 
Now  may  the  good  God  pardon  all  good  men ! 

How  bitterly  I speak, — how  certainly 
The  innocent  white  milk  in  us  is  turned, 

By  much  persistent  shining  of  the  sun ! — 

Shake  up  the  sweetest  in  us  long  enough 
With  men,  it  drops  to  foolish  curd,  too  sour 
To  feed  the  most  untender  of  Christ’s  lambs. 

I should  have  thought, — a woman  of  the  world 
Like  her  I ’m  meaning,  centre  to  herself, 

Who  has  wheeled  on  her  own  pivot  half  a life 
In  isolated  self-love  and  self-will, 

As  a windmill  seen  at  distance  radiating 


154 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


Its  delicate  white  vans  against  the  sky, 

So  soft  and  sonndless,  simply  beautiful, 

Seen  nearer, — what  a roar  and  tear  it  makes, 

How  it  grinds  and  bruises  ! — if  she  loves  at  last, 

Her  love ’s  a re-adjustment  of  self-love, 

No  more, — a need  felt  of  another^  use 
To  her  one  advantage,  as  the  mill  wants  grain, 

The  fire  wants  fuel,  the  very  wolf  wants  prey, 

And  none  of  these  is  more  unscrupulous 
Than  such  a charming  woman  when  she  loves. 

She  ’ll  not  be  thwarted  by  an  obstacle 

So  trifling  as  . . her  soul  is,  . . much  less  yours ! — 

Is  God  a consideration  ? — she  loves  you, 

Not  God ; she  will  not  flinch  for  Him  indeed  : 

She  did  not  for  the  Marchioness  of  Perth, 

When  wanting  tickets  for  the  fancy  ball. 

She  loves  you,  sir,  with  passion,  to  lunacy, 

She  loves  you  like  her  diamonds  . * almost. 

Well, 

A month  passed  so,  and  then  the  notice  came, 

On  such  a day  the  marriage  at  the  church. 

I was  not  backward. 

Half  Saint  Giles  in  frieze 
Was  bidden  to  meet  Saint  James  in  cloth  of  gold, 
And,  after  contract  at  the  altar,  pass 
To  eat  a marriage-feast  on  Hampstead  Heath. 

Of  course  the  people  came  in  uncompelled, 

Lame,  blind,  and  worse — sick,  sorrowful,  and  worse, 
The  humours  of  the  peccant  social  wound 
All  pressed  out,  poured  down  upon  Pimlico, 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


155 


Exasperating  the  unaccustomed  air 

With  a hideous  interfusion.  You ’d  suppose 

A finished  generation,  dead  of  plague, 

Swept  outward  from  their  graves  into  the  sun, 

The  moil  of  death  upon  them.  What  a sight ! 

A holiday  of  miserable  men 
Is  sadder  than  a burial-day  of  kings. 

They  clogged  the  streets,  they  oozed  into  the  church 
In  a dark  slow  stream,  like  blood.  To  see  that  sight, 
The  noble  ladies  stood  up  in  their  pews, 

Some  pale  for  fear,  a few  as  red  for  hate, 

Some  simply  curious,  some  just  insolent, 

And  some  in  wondering  scorn, — ‘ What  next  ? what 
next?’ 

These  crushed  their  delicate  rose-lips  from  the  smile 
That  misbecame  them  in  a holy  place, 

With  broidered  hems  of  perfumed  handkerchiefs  ; 

Those  passed  the  salts,  with  confidence  of  eyes 
And  simultaneous  shiver  of  moire  silk  : 

While  all  the  aisles,  alive  and  black  with  heads, 
Crawled  slowly  toward  the  altar  from  the  street, 

As  bruised  snakes  crawl  and  hiss  out  of  a hole 
With  shuddering  involution,  swaying  slow 
From  right  to  left,  and  then  from  left  to  right, 

In  pants  and  pauses.  What  an  ugly  crest 
Of  faces  rose  upon  you  everywhere 
From  that  crammed  mass ! you  did  not  usually 
See  faces  like  them  in  the  open  day  : 

They  hide  in  cellars,  not  to  make  you  mad 


156 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


As  Romney  Leigh  is. — Faces  ! — 0 my  God, 

We  call  those,  faces  ? men’s  and  women’s  . . ay, 

And  children’s  ; — babies,  hanging  like  a rag 
Forgotten  on  their  mother’s  neck, — poor  months, 
Wiped  clean  of  mother’s  milk  by  mother’s  blow 
Before  they  are  tanght  her  cursing.  Faces  ? . . phew, 
We  ’ll  call  them  vices,  festering  to  despairs, 

Or  sorrows,  petrifying  to  vices  : not 
A finger-touch  of  God  left  whole  on  them, 

All  ruined,  lost — the  countenance  worn  out 
As  the  garment,  the  will  dissolute  as  the  act, 

The  passions  loose  and  draggling  in  the  dirt 
To  trip  a foot  up  at  the  first  free  step ! 

Those,  faces  ? ’t  was  as  if  you  had  stirred  up  hell 
To  heave  its  lowest  dreg-fiends  uppermost 
In  fiery  swirls  of  slime, — such  strangled  fronts, 

Such  obdurate  jaws  were  thrown  up  constantly 
To  twit  you  with  your  race,  corrupt  your  blood, 

And  grind  to  devilish  colours  all  your  dreams 
Henceforth, — though,  haply,  you  should  drop  asleep 
By  clink  of  silver  waters,  in  a muse 
On  Raffael’s  mild  Madonna  of  the  Bird. 

I ’ve  waked  and  slept  through  many  nights  and,  days 
Since  then, — but  still  that  day  will  catch  my  breath 
Like  a nightmare.  There  are  fatal  days,  indeed, 

In  which  the  fibrous  years  have  taken  root 
So  deeply,  that  they  quiver  to  their  tops 
Whene’er  you  stir  the  dust  of  such  a day. 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


157 


My  cousin  met  me  with  his  eyes  and  hand, 

And  then,  with  just  a word,  . . that  ‘ Marian  Erie 
Was  coming  with  her  bridesmaids  presently,’ 

Made  haste  to  place  me  by  the  altar-stair 
Where  he  and  other  noble  gentlemen 
And  high-born  ladies,  waited  for  the  bride. 

We  waited.  It  was  early  : there  was  time 
For  greeting  and  the  morning’s  compliment, 

And  gradually  a ripple  of  women’s  talk 
Arose  and  fell  and  tossed  about  a spray 
Of  English  ss,  soft  as  a silent  hush, 

And,  notwithstanding,  quite  as  audible 
As  louder  phrases  thrown  out  by  the  men. 

— 4 Yes,  really,  if  we  need  to  wait  in  church 
We  need  to  talk  there.’ — 4 She  ? ’t  is  Lady  Ayr, 

In  blue — not  purple  ! that  ’s  the  dowager.’ 

— 4 She  looks  as  young  ’ — 4 She  flirts  as  young,  you  mean. 
Why  if  you  had  seen  her  upon  Thursday  night, 

You ’d  call  Miss  Norris  modest.’ — 4 You  again  ! 

I waltzed  with  you  three  hours  back.  Up  at  six, 

Up  still  at  ten  ; scarce  time  to  change  one’s  shoes  : 

I feel  as  white  and  sulky  as  a ghost, 

So  pray  don’t  speak  to  me,  Lord  Belcher.’ — 4 No, 

I ’ll  look  at  you  instead,  and  it ’s  enough 

While  you  have  that  face.’  4 In  church,  my  lord  ! fie,  fie  !’ 

— 4 Adair,  you  stayed  for  the  Division  ?’ — 4 Lost 

By  one.’  4 The  devil  it  is  ! I ’m  sorry  for  ’t. 

And  if  I had  not  promised  Mistress  Grove  ’ . . 

4 You  might  have  kept  your  word  to  Liverpool.’ 


158 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


— 4 Constituents  must  remember,  after  all, 

We  ’re  mortal.’ — 4 We  remind  them  of  it.’ — 4 Hark, 

The  bride  comes  ! here  she  comes,  in  a stream  of  milk  !’ 
— 4 There  ? Dear,  you  are  asleep  still ; don’t  you  know 
The  five  Miss  Granvilles  ? always  dressed  in  white 
To  show  they  Te  ready  to  be  married.’ — 4 Lower ! 

The  aunt  is  at  your  elbow.’ — 4 Lady  Maud, 

Did  Lady  Waldemar  tell  you  she  had  seen 
This  girl  of  Leigh’s?’  4 No, — wait!  ’t  was  Mistress 
Brookes, 

Who  told  me  Lady  Waldemar  told  her — 

No,  ’t  wasn’t  Mistress  Brookes.’ — 4 She  ’s  pretty?’ — 
‘Who? 

Mistress  Brookes  ? Lady  Waldemar  ?’ — 4 LIow  hot ! 

Pray  is ’t  the  law  to-day  we  ’re  not  to  breathe  ? 

You  ’re  treading  on  my  shawl — I thank  you,  sir.’ 

— 4 They  say  the  bride  ’s  a mere  child,  who  can ’t  read, 
But  knows  the  things  she  shouldn’t,  with  wide-awake 
Great  eyes.  I ’d  go  through  fire  to  look  at  her.’ 

— 4 You  do,  I think.’ — 4 And  Lady  Waldemar 
(You  see  her  ; sitting  close  to  Romney  Leigh. 

How  beautiful  she  looks,  a little  flushed !) 

Has  taken  up  the  girl,  and  methodised 
Leigh’s  folly.  Should  I have  come  here,  you  suppose, 
Except  she ’d  asked  me  ?’ — 4 She ’d  have  served  him  more 
By  marrying  him  herself.’ 

4 Ah- — there  she  comes, 

The  bride,  at  last !’ 

4 Indeed,  no.  Past  eleven. 

She  puts  off  her  patched  petticoat  to-day 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


159 


And  puts  on  May-fair  manners,  so  begins 
By  setting  ns  to  wait.’ — 4 Yes,  yes,  this  Leigh 
Was  always  odd ; it ’s  in  the  blood,  I think  ; 

His  father’s  uncle’s  cousin’s  second  son 
Was,  was  . . you  understand  me  ; and  for  him, 

He ’s  stark, — has  turned  quite  lunatic  upon 
This  modem  question  of  the  poor — the  poor. 

An  excellent  subject  when  you  ’re  moderate  ; 

You ’ve  seen  Prince  Albert’s  model  lodging-house  ? 
Does  honour  to  his  Royal  Plighness.  Good  ! 

But  would  he  stop  his  carriage  in  Cheapside 

To  shake  a common  fellow  by  the  fist 

Whose  name  was  . . Shakspeare  ? no.  We  draw  a line, 

And  if  we  stand  not  by  our  order,  we 

In  England,  we  fall  headlong.  Here ’s  a sight, — 

A hideous  sight,  a most  indecent  sight ! 

My  wife  would  come,  sir,  or  I had  kept  her  back. 

By  heaven,  sir,  when  poor  Damiens’  trunk  and  limbs 
Were  torn  by  horses,  women  of  the  court 
Stood  by  and  stared,  exactly  as  to-day 
On  this  dismembering  of  society, 

With  pretty,  troubled  faces.’ 


She  comes  now.’ 


4 Now,  at  last. 


4 Where  ? who  sees  ? you  push  me,  sir  , 
Beyond  the  point  of  what  is  mannerly. 

You  ’re  standing,  madam,  on  my  second  flounce 
I do  beseech  you  . . .’ 

4 No — it  ’s  not  the  bride. 

Half-past  eleven.  How  late.  The  bridegroom,  mark, 


160 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


Gets  anxious  and  goes  out.’ 

4 And  as  I said 

These  Leighs  ! our  best  blood  running  in  the  rut ! 

It ’s  something  awful.  We  had  pardoned  him 

A simple  misalliance  got  up  aside 

For  a pair  of  sky-blue  eyes ; the  House  of  Lords 

Has  winked  at  such  things,  and  we ’ve  all  been  young. 

But  here ’s  an  inter-marriage  reasoned  out, 

A contract  (carried  boldly  to  the  light 

To  challenge  observation,  pioneer 

Good  acts  by  a great  example)  ’twixt  the  extremes 

Of  martyrised  society, — on  the  left 

The  well-born,  on  the  right  the  merest  mob, 

To  treat  as  equals  ! — ’t  is  anarchical ; 

It  means  more  than  it  says ; ’t  is  damnable. 

Why,  sir,  we  can’t  have  even  our  coffee  good, 

Unless  we  strain  it.’ 

4 Here,  Miss  Leigh !’ 

4 Lord  Howe, 

You  ’re  Romney’s  friend.  What ’s  all  this  waiting  for?’ 

4 1 cannot  tell.  The  bride  has  lost  her  head 
(And  way,  perhaps  !)  to  prove  her  sympathy 
With  the  bridegroom.’ 

4 What, — you  also,  disapprove  !’ 

4 Oh,  I approve  of  nothing  in  the  world,’ 

He  answered,  4 not  of  you,  still  less  of  me, 

Nor  even  of  Romney,  though  he ’s  worth  us  both. 

We  ’re  all  gone  wrong.  The  tune  in  us  is  lost ; 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


161 


And  whistling  down  back  alleys  to  the  moon 
Will  never  catch  it.’ 

Let  me  draw  Lord  Howe. 

A born  aristocrat,  bred  radical, 

And  educated  socialist,  who  still 
Goes  floating,  on  traditions  of  his  kind, 

Across  the  theoretic  flood  from  France, 

Though,  like  a drenched  Noah  on  a rotten  deck, 
Scarce  safer  for  his  place  there.  He,  at  least. 

Will  never  land  on  Ararat,  he  knows, 

To  recommence  the  world  on  the  new  plan  . 

Indeed,  he  thinks,  said  world  had  better  end. 

He  sympathises  rather  with  the  fish 

Outside,  than  with  the  drowned  paired  beasts  within 

Who  cannot  couple  again  or  multiply, — 

And  that ’s  the  sort  of  Noah  he  is,  Lord  Howe 
He  never  could  be  anything  complete, 

Except  a loyal,  upright  gentleman, 

A liberal  landlord,  graceful  diner-out, 

And  entertainer  more  than  hospitable, 

Whom  authors  dine  with  and  forget  the  hock. 
Whatever  he  believes,  and  it  is  much, 

But  nowise  certain,  now  here  and  now  there, 

He  still  has  sympathies  beyond  his  creed 
Diverting  him  from  action.  In  the  House, 

No  party  counts  upon  him,  while  for  all 
His  speeches  have  a noticeable  weight. 

Men  like  his  books  too,  (he  has  written  books ) 
Which,  safe  to  lie  beside  a bishop’s  chair, 

At  times  outreach  themselves  with  jets  of  fire 

M 


J 62 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


At  which  the  foremost  of  the  progressists 
May  warm  audacious  hands  in  passing  by. 

Of  stature  over-tall,  lounging  for  ease  ; 

Light  hair,  that  seems  to  carry  a wind  in  it, 

And  eyes  that,  when  they  look  on  you,  will  lean 
Their  whole  weight,  half  in  indolence  and  half 
In  wishing  you  unmitigated  good, 

Until  you  know  not  if  to  flinch  from  him 
Or  thank  him. — ’T  is  Lord  Howe. 

4 We  ’re  all  gone  wrong.’ 
Said  he,  4 and  Eomney,  that  dear  friend  of  ours, 

Is  nowise  right.  There ’s  one  true  thing  on  earth, 

That  ’s  love ! he  takes  it  up,  and  dresses  it, 

And  acts  a play  with  it,  as  Hamlet  did, 

To  show  what  cruel  uncles  we  have  been, 

And  how  we  should  be  uneasy  in  our  minds 
While  he,  Prince  Hamlet,  weds  a pretty  maid 
(Who  keeps  us  too  long  waiting,  we  ’ll  confess) 

By  symbol,  to  instruct  us  formally 

To  fill  the  ditches  lip  ’twixt  class  and  class. 

And  live  together  in  phalansteries. 

What  then  ? — he ’s  mad,  our  Hamlet ! clap  his  pi  ay. 

And  bind  him.’ 

4 Ah  Lord  Howe,  this  spectacle 
Pulls  stronger  at  us  than  the  Dane’s.  See  there! 

The  crammed  aisles  heave  and  strain  and  steam  with  life. 
Dear  Heaven,  what  life  ! 

4 Why,  yes, — a poet  sees ; 
Which  makes  him  different  from  a common  man. 

I,  too,  see  somewhat,  though  I cannot  sing ; 


AUEOKA  LEIGH. 


163 


I should  have  been  a poet,  only  that 
My  mother  took  fright  at  the  ugly  world, 

And  bore  me  tongue-tied.  If  you  ’ll  grant  me  now 
That  Romney  gives  us  a fine  actor-piece 
To  make  us  merry  on  his  marriage-morn, 

The  fable ’s  worse  than  Hamlet’s  I ’ll  concede. 

The  terrible  people,  old  and  poor  and  blind, 

Their  eyes  eat  out  with  plague  and  poverty 
From  seeing  beautiful  and  cheerful  sights, 

We  ’ll  liken  to  a brutalised  King  Lear, 

Led  out, — by  no  means  to  clear  scores  with  wrongs — 
His  wrongs  are  so  far  back,  he  has  forgot, 

(All ’s  past  like  youth  ;)  but  just  to  witness  here 
A simple  contract, — he,  upon  his  side, 

And  Regan  with  her  sister  Goneril 
And  all  the  dappled  courtiers  and  court-fools 
On  their  side.  Hot  that  any  of  these  would  say 
They  ’re  sorry,  neither.  What  is  done,  is  done 
And  violence  is  now  turned  privilege, 

As  cream  turns  cheese,  if  buried  long  enough. 

What  could  such  lovely  ladies  have  to  do 
With  the  old  man  there,  in  those  ill-odorous  rags, 
Except  to  keep  the  wind-side  of  him  ? Lear 
Is  flat  and  quiet,  as  a decent  grave ; 

He  does  not  curse  his  daughters  in  the  least : 

Be  these  his  daughters  ? Lear  is  thinking  of 
His  porridge  chiefly  . . is  it  getting  cold 
At  Hampstead  ? will  the  ale  be  served  in  pots  ? 

Poor  Lear,  poor  daughters  ! Bravo,  Romney’s  play 


164 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


A murmur  and  a movement  drew  around, 

A naked  whisper  touched  us.  Something  wrong. 

What ’s  wrong  ? The  black  crowd,  as  an  overstrained 
Cord,  quivered  in  vibration,  and  I saw  . . 

Was  that  his  face  I saw  ? . . his  . . Bomney  Leigh  s . . 
Which  tossed  a sudden  horror  like  a sponge 
Into  all  eyes, — while  himself  stood  white  upon 
The  topmost  altar-stair  and  tried  to  speak, 

And  failed,  and  lifted  higher  above  his  head 
A letter,  . . as  a man  who  drowns  and  gasps. 

‘ My  brothers,  bear  with  me  ! 1 am  very  weak. 

1 meant  but  only  good.  Perhaps  I meant 
Too  proudly,  and  God  snatched  the  circumstance 
And  changed  it  therefore.  There  ’s  no  marriage — none. 
She  leaves  me, — she  departs, — she  disappears, 

I lose  her.  Yet  I never  forced  her  4 ay,’ 

To  have  her  4 no 9 so  cast  into  my  teeth 
In  manner  of  an  accusation,  thus. 

My  friends,  you  are  dismissed.  Go,  eat  and  drink 
According  to  the  programme, — and  farewell !’ 

He  ended.  There  was  silence  in  the  church. 

We  heard  a baby  sucking  in  its  sleep 

At  the  farthest  end  of  the  aisle.  Then  spoke  a man, 

* Now,  look  to  it,  coves,  that  all  the  beef  and  drink 
Be  not  filched  from  us  like  the  other  fun, 

For  beer ’s  spilt  easier  than  a woman  ’s  lost ! 

This  gentry  is  not  honest  with  the  poor  ; 

They  bring  us  up,  to  trick  us.’ — 4 Go  it,  Jim/ 


AUEOKA  LEIGH. 


165 


A woman  screamed  back, — ‘ I ’m  a tender  soul, 

I never  banged  a child  at  two  years  old 
And  drew  blood  from  him,  but  I sobbed  for  it 
Next  moment, — and  I ’ve  had  a plague  of  seven. 

I ’m  tender  ; I ’ve  no  stomach  even  for  beef, 

Until  I know  about  the  girl  that ’s  lost, 

That ’s  killed,  mayhap.  I did  misdoubt,  at  first, 
The  fine  lord  meant  no  good  by  her  or  us. 

He,  maybe,  got  the  upper  hand  of  her 
By  holding  up  a wedding-ring,  and  then  . . 

A choking  finger  on  her  throat  last  night, 

And  just  a clever  tale  to  keep  us  still, 

As  she  is,  poor  lost  innocent.  ‘ Disappear  !’ 

Who  ever  disappears  except  a ghost  ? 

And  who  believes  a story  of  a ghost  ? 

I ask  you, — would  a girl  go  off,  instead 
Of  staying  to  be  married  ? a fine  tale ! 

A wicked  man,  I say,  a wicked  man  ! 

For  my  part  I would  rather  starve  on  gin 
Than  make  my  dinner  on  his  beef  and  beer.’ — • 

At  which  a cry  rose  up — ‘ We  ’ll  have  our  rights. 
We  ’ll  have  the  girl,  the  girl ! Your  ladies  there 
Are  married  safely  and  smoothly  every  day, 

And  she  shall  not  drop  through  into  a trap 
Because  she ’s  poor  and  of  the  people  : shame  ! 

We  ’ll  have  no  tricks  played  off  by  gentlefolks  ; 

We  ’ll  see  her  righted.’ 

Through  the  rage  and  roar 
I heard  the  broken  words  which  Romney  flung 
Among  the  turbulent  masses,  from  the  ground 


166 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


He  held  still  with  his  masterful  pale  face, — • 

As  huntsmen  throw  the  ration  to  the  pack, 

Who,  falling  on  it  headlong,  dog  on  dog 
In  heaps  of  fury,  rend  it,  swallow  it  up 
With  yelling  hound-jaws, — his  indignant  words, 

His  suppliant  words,  his  most  pathetic  words, 

Whereof  I caught  the  meaning  here  and  there 
By  his  gesture  . . torn  in  morsels,  yelled  across, 

And  so  devoured.  From  end  to  end,  the  church 
Booked  round  us  like  the  sea  in  storm,  and  then 
Broke  up  like  the  earth  in  earthquake.  Men  cried  out 
6 Police  ’ — and  women  stood  and  shrieked  for  God. 

Or  dropt  and  swooned ; or,  like  a herd  of  deer, 

(For  whom  the  black  woods  suddenly  grow  alive, 
Unleashing  their  wild  shadows  down  the  wind 
To  hunt  the  creatures  into  corners,  back 
And  forward)  madly  fled,  or  blindly  fell, 

Trod  screeching  underneath  the  feet  of  those 
Who  fled  and  screeched. 

The  last  sight  left  to  me 
Was  Bomney’s  terrible  calm  face  above 
The  tumult ! — the  last  sound  was  ‘ Pull  him  down  • 
Strike — kill  him  !’  Stretching  my  unreasoning  arms. 
As  men  in  dreams,  who  vainly  interpose 
’Twixt  gods  and  their  undoing,  with  a cry 
I struggled  to  precipitate  myself 
Head-foremost  to  the  rescue  of  my  soul 
In  that  white  face,  . . till  some  one  caught  me  back, 
And  so  the  world  went  out, — I felt  no  more. 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


167 


Wliat  followed  was  told  after  by  Lord  Howe, 

Who  bore  me  senseless  from  the  strangling  crowd 
In  church  and  street,  and  then  returned  alone 
To  see  the  tumult  quelled.  The  men  of  law 
Had  fallen  as  thunder  on  a roaring  fire, 

And  made  all  silent, — while  the  people's  smoke 
Passed  eddying  slowly  from  the  emptied  aisles. 

Here ’s  Marian’s  letter,  which  a ragged  child 
Brought  running,  just  as  Romney  at  the  porch 
Looked  out  expectant  of  the  bride.  He  sent 
The  letter  to  me  by  his  friend  Lord  Howe 
Some  two  hours  after,  folded  in  a sheet 
On  which  his  well-known  hand  had  left  a word. 
Here ’s  Marian’s  letter. 

4 Noble  friend,  dear  saint, 
Be  patient  with  me.  Never  think  me  vile, 

Who  might  to-morrow  morning  be  your  wife 
But  that  I loved  you  more  than  such  a name. 
Farewell,  my  Romney.  Let  me  write  it  once, — 
My  Romney. 

4 ’T  is  so  pretty  a coupled  word, 

I have  no  heart  to  pluck  it  with  a blot. 

We  say  4 my  God  ’ sometimes,  upon  our  knees, 

Who  is  not  therefore  vexed : so  bear  with  it  . . 

And  me.  1 know  I ’m  foolish,  weak,  and  vain ; 
Yet  most  of  all  I ’m  angry  with  myself 
For  losing  your  last  footstep  on  the  stair 
That  last  time  of  your  coming, — yesterday  ! 

The  very  first  time  I lost  step  of  yours, 


168 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


(Its  sweetness  comes  the  next  to  what  you  speak) 

But  yesterday  sobs  took  me  by  the  throat 
And  cut  me  off  from  music. 

4 Mister  Leigh, 

You  ’ll  set  me  down  as  wrong  in  many  things. 

You’ve  praised  me,  sir,  for  truth, — and  now  you’ll  learn 
I had  not  courage  to  be  rightly  true. 

I once  began  to  tell  you  how  she  came, 

The  woman  . . and  you  stared  upon  the  floor 
In  one  of  your  fixed  thoughts  . . which  put  me  out 
For  that  day.  After,  some  one  spoke  of  me, 

So  wisely,  and  of  you,  so  tenderly, 

Persuading  me  to  silence  for  your  sake  . . . 

Well,  well ! it  seems  this  moment  I was  wrong 
In  keeping  back  from  telling  you  the  truth : 

There  might  be  truth  betwixt  us  two,  at  least, 

If  nothing  else.  And  yet ’t  was  dangerous. 

Suppose  a real  angel  came  from  heaven 
To  live  with  men  and  women  ! he  ’d  go  mad, 

If  no  considerate  hand  should  tie  a blind 
Across  his  piercing  eyes.  ’T  is  thus  with  you : 

You  see  us  too  much  in  your  heavenly  light ; 

I always  thought  so,  angel, — and  indeed 
There ’s  danger  that  you  beat  yourself  to  death 
Against  the  edges  of  this  alien  world, 

In  some  divine  and  fluttering  pity. 

‘Yes, 

It  would  be  dreadful  for  a friend  of  yours, 

To  see  all  England  thrust  you  out  of  doors 

And  mock  you  from  the  windows.  You  might  say, 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


169 


Or  think  (that  ’s  worse),  4 There  ’s  some  one  in  the  house 
I miss  and  love  still.’  Dreadful ! 

4 Very  kind, 

I pray  you  mark,  was  Lady  Waldemar. 

She  came  to  see  me  nine  times,  rather  ten — 

So  beautiful,  she  hurts  one  like  the  day 
Let  suddenly  on  sick  eyes. 

4 Most  kind  of  all, 

Your  cousin  ! — ah,  most  like  you  ! Ere  you  came 
She  kissed  me  mouth  to  mouth  : I felt  her  soul 
Dip  through  her  serious  lips  in  holy  fire. 

God  help  me,  but  it  made  me  arrogant ; 

I almost  told  her  that  you  would  not  lose 
By  taking  nie  to  wife  : though  ever  since 
I ’ve  pondered  much  a certain  thing  she  asked  . . 

4 He  loves  you,  Marian  ?’  . . in  a sort  of  mild 

Derisive  sadness  . . as  a mother  asks 

Her  babe,  4 Yrou  ’ll  touch  that  star,  you  think?’ 

4 Farewell ! 

I know  I never  touched  it. 

4 This  is  worst : 

Babes  grow  and  lose  the  hope  of  things  above  : 

A silver  threepence  sets  them  leaping  high — 

But  no  more  stars ! mark  that. 

4 1 ’ve  writ  all  night 

Yet  told  you  nothing.  God,  if  I could  die, 

And  let  this  letter  break  off  innocent 
Just  here  ! But  no — for  your  sake  . . 

4 Here’s  the  last : 

I never  could  be  happy  as  your  wife, 


170 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


I never  could  be  harmless  as  your  friend, 

I never  will  look  more  into  your  face 
Till  God  says,  4 Look  !’  I charge  you,  seek  me  not, 
Nor  vex  yourself  with  lamentable  thoughts 
That  peradventure  I have  come  to  grief ; 

Be  sure  I ’m  well,  I ’m  merry,  I ’m  at  ease, 

But  such  a long  way,  long  way,  long  way  off, 

I think  you  11  find  me  sooner  in  my  grave, 

And  that  ’s  my  choice,  observe.  Bor  what  remains, 
An  over-generous  friend  will  care  for  me 
And  keep  me  happy  . . happier  . . 

4 There  ’s  a blot 

This  ink  runs  thick  . . we  light  girls  lightly  weep  . . . 
And  keep  me  happier  . . was  the  thing  to  say, 

Than  as  your  wife  I could  be. — 0,  my  star, 

My  saint,  my  soul ! for  surely  you  ’re  my  soul, 
Through  whom  God  touched  me  ! I am  not  so  lost 
I cannot  thank  you  for  the  good  you  did, 

The  tears  you  stopped,  which  fell  down  bitterly, 

Like  these — the  times  you  made  me  weep  for  joy 
At  hoping  I should  learn  to  write  your  notes 
And  save  the  tiring  of  your  eyes,  at  night ; 

And  most  for  that  sweet  thrice  you  kissed  my  lips 
Saying  4 Dear  Marian.’ 

4 ’T  would  be  hard  to  read, 
This  letter,  for  a reader  half  as  learn’d  ; 

But  you  11  be  sure  to  master  it  in  spite 

Of  ups  and  downs.  My  hand  shakes,  I am  blind ; 

I In  poor  at  writing  at  the  best, — and  yet 
I tried  to  make  my  #s  the  way  you  showed. 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


171 


Farewell.  Christ  love  you. — Say  4 poor  Marian  ’ now.’ 

Poor  Marian  ! — wanton  Marian  ! — was  it  so, 

Or  so  ? For  days,  her  touching,  foolish  lines 
We  mused  on  with  conjectural  fantasy, 

As  if  some  riddle  of  a summer-cloud 
On  which  one  tries  unlike  similitudes 
Of  now  a spotted  Hydra-skin  cast  off, 

And  now  a screen  of  carven  ivory 

That  shuts  the  heavens’  conventual  secrets  up 

From  mortals  over-bold.  We  sought  the  sense  : 

She  loved  him  so  perhaps  (such  words  mean  love,) 
That,  worked  on  by  some  shrewd  perfidious  tongue, 
(And  then  I thought  of  Lady  Waldemar) 

She  left  him,  not  to  hurt  him ; or  perhaps 
She  loved  one  in  her  class, — or  did  not  love, 

But  mused  upon  her  wild  bad  tramping  life 
Until  the  free  blood  fluttered  at  her  heart, 

And  black  bread  eaten  by  the  road-side  hedge 
Seemed  sweeter  than  being  put  to  Bomney’s  school 
Of  philanthropical  self-sacrifice 
Irrevocably. — Girls  are  girls,  beside, 

Thought  I,  and  like  a wedding  by  one  rule. 

You  seldom  catch  these  birds  except  with  chaff : 

They  feel  it  almost  an  immoral  thing 
To  go  out  and  be  married  in  broad  day, 

Unless  some  winning  special  flattery  should 
Excuse  them  to  themselves  for ’t,  . . ‘ No  one  parts 
Her  hair  with  such  a silver  line  as  you, 

One  moonbeam  from  the  forehead  to  the  crown  !’ 


172 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


Or  else  . . 4 You  bite  your  lip  in  such  a way. 

It  spoils  me  for  the  smiling  of  the  rest,’ 

And  so  on.  Then  a worthless  gaud  or  two 
To  keep  for  love, — a ribbon  for  the  neck, 

Or  some  glass  pin, — they  have  their  weight  with  girls. 

And  Eomney  sought  her  many  days  and  weeks  : 

He  sifted  all  the  refuse  of  the  town, 

Explored  the  trains,  inquired  among  the  ships, 

And  felt  the  country  through  from  end  to  end : 

No  Marian! — Though  I hinted  what  I knew, — 

A friend  of  his  had  reasons  of  her  own 

For  throwing  back  the  match — he  would  not  hear : 

The  lady  had  been  ailing  ever  since, 

The  shock  had  harmed  her.  Something  in  his  tone 
Repressed  me ; something  in  me  shamed  my  doubt 
To  a sigh  repressed  too.  He  went  on  to  say 
That,  putting  questions  where  his  Marian  lodged, 

He  found  she  had  received  for  visitors, 

Besides  himself  and  Lady  Waldemar 

And,  that  once,  me — a dubious  woman  dressed 

Beyond  us  both : the  rings  upon  her  hands 

Had  dazed  the  children  when  she  threw  them  pence : 

4 She  wore  her  bonnet  as  the  queen  might  hers, 

To  show  the  crown,’  they  said, — 4 a scarlet  crown 
Of  roses  that  had  never  been  in  bud.’ 

When  Romney  told  me  that, — for  now  and  then 
He  came  to  tell  me  how  the  search  advanced, 

His  voice  dropped  : I bent  forward  for  the  rest : 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


173 


The  woman  had  been  with  her,  it  appeared, 

At  first  from  week  to  week,  then  day  by  day, 

And  last,  ’t  was  sure  . . 

I looked  upon  the  ground 
To  escape  the  anguish  of  his  eyes,  and  asked 
As  low  as  when  you  speak  to  mourners  new 
Of  those  they  cannot  bear  yet  to  call  dead, 

4 If  Marian  had  as  much  as  named  to  him 
A certain  Rose,  an  early  friend  of  hers, 

A ruined  creature.’ 

4 Never.’ — Starting  up 
He  strode  from  side  to  side  about  the  room, 

Most  like  some  prisoned  lion  sprung  awake, 

Who  has  felt  the  desert  sting  him  through  his  dreams. 
4 What  was  I to  her,  that  she  should  tell  me  aught  ? 

A friend  ! was  I a friend  ? I see  all  clear. 

Such  devils  would  pull  angels  out  of  heaven, 

Provided  they  could  reach  them ; ’t  is  their  pride  ; 
And  that ’s  the  odds  ’twixt  soul  and  body-plague ! 

The  veriest  slave  who  drops  in  Cairo’s  street, 

Cries,  4 Stand  off  from  me,’  to  the  passengers  ; 

While  these  blotched  souls  are  eager  to  infect, 

And  blow  their  bad  breath  in  a sister’s  face 
As  if  they  got  some  ease  by  it.’ 

I broke  through. 

4 Some  natures  catch  no  plagues.  I ’ve  read  of  babes 
Found  whole  and  sleeping  by  the  spotted  breast 
Of  one  a full  day  dead.  I hold  it  true, 

As  I ’m  a woman  and  know  womanhood, 

That  Marian  Erie,  however  lured  from  place, 


174 


AHKOEA  LEIGH. 


Deceived  in  way,  keeps  pure  in  aim  and  heart 
As  snow  that ’s  drifted  from  the  garden  -bank 
To  the  open  road.’ 

’T  was  hard  to  hear  him  laugh. 

6 The  figure ’s  happy.  Well— a dozen  carts 
And  trampers  will  secure  you  presently 
A fine  white  snow-drift.  Leave  it  there,  your  snow 
5T  will  pass  for  soot  ere  sunset.  Pure  in  aim  ? 

She ’s  pure  in  aim,  I grant  you, — like  myself, 

Who  thought  to  take  the  world  upon  my  hack 
To  carry  it  o’er  a chasm  of  social  ill, 

And  end  by  letting  slip  through  impotence 
A single  soul,  a child’s  weight  in  a soul, 

Straight  down  the  pit  of  hell ! yes,  I and  she 
Have  reason  to  be  proud  of  our  pure  aims.’ 

Then  softly,  as  the  last  repenting  drops 

Of  a thunder-shower,  he  added,  4 The  poor  child, 

Poor  Marian  ! ’t  was  a luckless  day  for  her, 

When  first  she  chanced  on  my  philanthropy.’ 

He  drew  a chair  beside  me,  and  sate  down ; 

And  I,  instinctively,  as  women  use 
Before  a sweet  friend’s  grief, — when,  in  his  ear, 
They  hum  the  tune  of  comfort  though  themselves 
Most  ignorant  of  the  special  words  of  such, 

And  quiet  so  and  fortify  his  brain 
And  give  it  time  and  strength  for  feeling  out 
To  reach  the  availing  sense  beyond  that  sound, — 
Went  murmuring  to  him  what,  if  written  here, 
Would  seem  not  much,  yet  fetched  him  better  help 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


Than  peradventure  if  it  had  been  more. 

I Ve  known  the  pregnant  thinkers  of  our  time, 

And  stood  by  breathless,  hanging  on  their  lips, 
When  some  chromatic  sequence  of  fine  thought 
In  learned  modulation  phrased  itself 
To  an  unconjectured  harmony  of  truth  : 

And  yet  I Ve  been  more  moved,  more  raised,  I say, 
By  a simple  word  . . a broken  easy  thing 
A three-years  infant  might  at  need  repeat, 

A look,  a sigh,  a touch  upon  the  palm, 

Which  meant  less  than  4 1 love  you,’  than  by  all 
The  full-voiced  rhetoric  of  those  master-mouths. 

4 Ah  dear  Aurora,’  he  began  at  last, 

His  pale  lips  fumbling  for  a sort  of  smile,  • 

4 Your  printer’s  devils  have  not  spoilt  your  heart : 
That ’s  well.  And  who  knows  but,  long  years  ago 
When  you  and  I talked,  you  were  somewhat  right 
In  being  so  peevish  with  me  ? You,  at  least, 

Have  ruined  no  one  through  your  dreams.  Instead, 
You ’ve  helped  the  facile  youth  to  live  youth’s  day 
With  innocent  distraction,  still  perhaps 
Suggestive  of  things  better  than  your  rhymes. 

The  little  shepherd-maiden,  eight  years  old, 

I Ve  seen  upon  the  mountains  of  Vaucluse, 

Asleep  i’  the  sun,  her  head  upon  her  knees, 

The  flocks  all  scattered,- — is  more  laudable 
Than  any  sheep-dog  trained  imperfectly, 

Who  bites  the  kids  through  too  much  zeal.’ 


176 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


‘Hook 

As  if  I had  slept,  then  ?’ 

He  was  touched  at  once 
By  something  in  my  face.  Indeed ’t  was  sure 
That  he  and  I, — despite  a year  or  two 
Of  younger  life  on  my  side,  and  on  his 
The  heaping  of  the  years’  work  on  the  days, 

The  three-hour  speeches  from  the  member’s  seat, 

The  hot  committees  in  and  out  of  doors, 

The  pamphlets,  ‘ Arguments,’  ‘ Collective  Views,’ 

Tossed  out  as  straw  before  sick  houses,  just 

To  show  one’s  sick  and  so  be  trod  to  dirt 

And  no  more  use, — through  this  world’s  underground 

The  burrowing,  groping  effort,  whence  the  arm 

And  heart  come  torn, — ’t  was  sure  that  he  and  I 

W ere,  after  all,  unequally  fatigued ; 

That  he,  in  his  developed  manhood,  stood 
A little  sunburnt  by  the  glare  of  life, 

While  I . . it  seemed  no  sun  had  shone  on  me, 

So  many  seasons  I had  missed  my  Springs. 

My  cheeks  had  pined  and  perished  from  their  orbs, 
And  all  the  youth-blood  in  them  had  grown  white 
As  dew  on  autumn  cyclamens  : alone 
My  eyes  and  forehead  answered  for  my  face. 

He  said,  4 Aurora,  you  are  changed — are  ill!’ 

4 Not  so,  my  cousin, — only  not  asleep,’ 

I answered,  smiling  gently.  4 Let  it  be. 

You  scarcely  found  the  poet  of  Vaucluse 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


177 


As  drowsy  as  the  shepherds.  What  is  art 
But  life  upon  the  larger  scale,  the  higher, 

When,  graduating  up  in  a spiral  line 
Of  still  expanding  and  ascending  gyres, 

It  pushes  toward  the  intense  significance 
Of  all  things,  hungry  for  the  Infinite  ? 

Art ’s  life, — and  where  we  live,  we  suffer  and  toil.’ 

He  seemed  to  sift  me  with  his  painful  eyes. 

‘ You  take  it  gravely,  cousin  ; you  refuse 

Your  dreamland’s  right  of  common,  and  green  rest. 

You  break  the  mythic  turf  where  danced  the  nymphs, 
With  crooked  ploughs  of  actual  life, — let  in 
The  axes  to  the  legendary  woods, 

To  pay  the  poll-tax.  You  are  fallen  indeed 
On  evil  days,  you  poets,  if  yourselves 
Can  praise  that  art  of  yours  no  otherwise ; 

And,  if  you  cannot,  . . better  take  a trade 
And  be  of  use  : ’t  were  cheaper  for  your  youth.’ 

‘ Of  use !’  I softly  echoed,  4 there ’s  the  point 
We  sweep  about  for  ever  in  argument, 

Like  swallows  which  the  exasperate,  dying  year 
Sets  spinning  in  black  circles,  round  and  round, 
Preparing  for  far  flights  o’er  unknown  seas. 

And  we,  where  tend  we  ?’ 

‘ Where  ?’  he  said,  and  sighed. 
‘ The  whole  creation,  from  the  hour  we  are  born, 
Perplexes  us  with  questions.  Not  a stone 
But  cries  behind  us,  every  weary  step, 


178 


AURORA  LEIGH, 


‘ Where,  where  ?’  I leave  stones  to  reply  to  stones. 
Enough  for  me  and  for  my  fleshly  heart 
To  hearken  the  invocations  of  my  kind, 

"When  men  catch  hold  upon  my  shuddering  nerves 
And  shriek,  ‘What  help?  what  hope?  what  bread  i 
the  house, 

4 What  fire  i’  the  frost  ? There  must  be  some  response 
Though  mine  fail  utterly.  This  social  Sphinx 
Who  sits  between  the  sepulchres  and  stews, 

Makes  mock  and  mow  against  the  crystal  heavens, 

And  bullies  God, — exacts  a word  at  least 
From  each  man  standing  on  the  side  of  God, 

However  paying  a sphinx-price  for  it. 

We  pay  it  also  if  we  hold  our  peace, 

In  pangs  and  pity.  Let  me  speak  and  die. 

Alas,  you  ’ll  say  I speak  and  kill  instead.’ 

I pressed  in  there.  4 The  best  men,  doing  their  best, 
Know  peradventure  least  of  what  they  do  : 

Men  usefullest  i’  the  world  are  simply  used ; 

The  nail  that  holds  the  wood,  must  pierce  it  first, 

And  He  alone  who  wields  the  hammer  sees 

The  work  advanced  by  the  earliest  blow.  Take  heart.’ 

4 Ah,  if  I could  have  taken  yours  !’  he  said, 

4 But  that’s  past  now.’  Then  rising, — 4 1 will  take 
At  least  your  kindness  and  encouragement. 

I thank  you.  Dear,  be  happy.  Sing  your  songs, 

If  that ’s  your  way  ! but  sometimes  slumber  too, 

Nor  tire  too  much  with  following,  out  of  breath, 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


179 


The  rhymes  upon  your  mountains  of  Delight. 
Reflect,  if  Art  be  in  truth  the  higher  life, 

You  need  the  lower  life  to  stand  upon 
In  order  to  reach  up  unto  that  higher ; 

And  none  can  stand  a-tiptoe  in  the  place 
He  cannot  stand  in  with  two  stable  feet. 

Remember  then  ! — for  Art’s  sake,  hold  your  life.’ 

We  parted  so.  I held  him  in  respect. 

I comprehended  what  he  was  in  heart 
And  sacrificial  greatness.  Ay,  but  he 
Supposed  me  a thing  too  small,  to  deign  to  know : 
He  blew  me,  plainly,  from  the  crucible 
As  some  intruding,  interrupting  fly, 

Not  worth  the  pains  of  his  analysis 
Absorbed  on  nobler  subjects.  Hurt  a fly  ! 

He  would  not  for  the  world  : he ’s  pitiful 

To  flies  even.  4 Sing,’  says  he,  4 and  tease  me  still, 

If  that ’s  your  way,  poor  insect.’  That ’s  your  way ! 


( 181  ) 


FIFTH  BOOK. 


Aurora  Leigh,  be  humble.  Shall  I hope 
To  speak  my  poems  in  mysterious  tune 
With  man  and  nature  ? — with  the  lava-lymph 
That  trickles  from  successive  galaxies 
Still  drop  by  drop  adown  the  finger  of  God 
In  still  new  worlds? — with  summer-days  in  this 
That  scarce  dare  breathe  they  are  so  beautiful  ? 

With  spring’s  delicious  trouble  in  the  ground. 

Tormented  by  the  quickened  blood  of  roots. 

And  softly  pricked  by  golden  crocus-sheaves 
In  token  of  the  harvest-time  of  flowers  ? 

With  winters  and  with  autumns, — and  beyond 
With  the  human  heart’s  large  seasons,  when  it  hopes 
And  fears,  joys,  grieves,  and  loves  ? — with  all  that  strain 
Of  sexual  passion,  which  devours  the  flesh 
In  a sacrament  of  souls  ? with  mother’s  breasts 
Which,  round  the  new-made  creatures  hanging  there, 
Throb  luminous  and  harmonious  like  pure  spheres  ? — 
With  multitudinous  life,  and  finally 
With  the  great  escapings  of  ecstatic  souls, 


182 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


Who,  in  a rush  of  too  long  prisoned  flame, 

Their  radiant  faces  npward,  bum  away 
This  dark  of  the  body,  issuing  on  a world 
Beyond  our  mortal  ? — can  I speak  my  verse 
So  plainly  in  tune  to  these  things  and  the  rest, 
That  men  shall  feel  it  catch  them  on  the  quick, 

As  having  the  same  warrant  over  them 
To  hold  and  move  them  if  they  will  or  no, 

Alike  imperious  as  the  primal  rhythm 
Of  that  theurgic  nature  ? — I must  fail, 

Who  fail  at  the  beginning  to  hold  and  move 
One  man, — and  he  my  cousin,  and  he  my  friend, 
And  he  born  tender,  made  intelligent, 

Inclined  to  ponder  the  precipitous  sides 
Of  difficult  questions  ; yet,  obtuse  to  me , 

Of  me , incurious  ! likes  me  very  well, 

And  wishes  me  a paradise  of  good, 

Good  looks,  good  means,  and  good  digestion, — ay, 
But  otherwise  evades  me,  puts  me  off 
With  kindness,  with  a tolerant  gentleness, — 

Too  light  a book  for  a grave  man’s  reading ! Go, 
Aurora  Leigh  : be  humble. 

There  it  is, 

We  women  are  too  apt  to  look  to  one, 

Which  proves  a certain  impotence  in  art. 

We  strain  our  natures  at  doing  something  great, 
Far  less  because  it  ’s  something  great  to  do, 

Than  haply  that  we,  so,  commend  ourselves 
As  being  not  small,  and  more  appreciable 
To  some  one  friend.  We  must  have  mediators 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


183 


Betwixt  our  highest  conscience  and  the  judge  ; 

Some  sweet  saint’s  blood  must  quicken  in  our  palms, 
Or  all  the  life  in  heaven  seems  slow  and  cold : 

Good  only  being  perceived  as  the  end  of  good, 

And  God  alone  pleased, — that ’s  too  poor,  we  think, 
And  not  enough  for  us  by  any  means. 

Ay — Komney,  I remember,  told  me  once 
We  miss  the  abstract  when  we  comprehend. 

We  miss  it  most  when  we  aspire, — and  fail. 

Yet,  so,  I will  not. — This  vile  woman’s  way 
Of  trailing  garments,  shall  not  trip  me  up  : 

I ’ll  have  no  traffic  with  the  personal  thought 
In  art’s  pure  temple.  Must  I work  in  vain, 

Without  the  approbation  of  a man  ? 

It  cannot  be  ; it  shall  not.  Fame  itself, 

That  approbation  of  the  general  race, 

Presents  a poor  end,  (though  the  arrow  speed, 

Shot  straight  with  vigorous  finger  to  the  white,) 
And  the  highest  fame  was  never  reached  except 
By  what  was  aimed  above  it.  Art  for  art, 

And  good  for  God  Himself,  the  essential  Good ! 

We  ’ll  keep  our  aims  sublime,  our  eyes  erect, 
Although  our  woman-hands  should  shake  and  fail ; 
And  if  we  fail  . . But  must  we  ? — 

Shall  I fail  ? 

The  Greeks  said  grandly  in  their  tragic  phrase, 

‘ Let  no  one  be  called  happy  till  his  death.’ 

To  which  I add, — Let  no  one  till  his  death 
Be  called  unhappy.  Measure  not  the  work 


184 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


Until  the  day ’s  out  and  the  labour  done, 

Then  bring  your  gauges.  If  the  day’s  work ’s  scant, 
Why,  call  it  scant ; affect  no  compromise  ; 

And,  in  that  we  have  nobly  striven  at  least, 

Deal  with  us  nobly,  women  though  we  be, 

And  honour  us  with  truth  if  not  with  praise. 

My  ballads  prospered  ; but  the  ballad’s  race 
Is  rapid  for  a poet  who  bears  weights 
Of  thought  and  golden  image.  He  can  stand 
Like  Atlas,  in  the  sonnet, — and  support 
His  own  heavens  pregnant  with  dynastic  stars ; 

But  then  he  must  stand  still,  nor  take  a step. 

In  that  descriptive  poem  called  ‘ The  Hills/ 

The  prospects  were  too  far  and  indistinct. 

’T  is  true  my  critics  said,  4 A fine  view,  that !’ 

The  public  scarcely  cared  to  climb  my  book 
For  even  the  finest,  and  the  public ’s  right ; 

A tree ’s  mere  firewood,  unless  humanised, — 

Which  well  the  Greeks  knew  when  they  stirred  its  bark 
With  close-pressed  bosoms  of  subsiding  nymphs, 

And  made  the  forest-rivers  garrulous 

With  babble  of  gods.  For  us,  we  are  called  to  mark 

A still  more  intimate  humanity 

in  this  inferior  nature,  or  ourselves 

Must  fall  like  dead  leaves  trodden  underfoot 

By  veritable  artists.  Earth  (shut  up 

By  Adam,  like  a fakir  in  a box 

Left  too  long  buried)  remained  stiff  and  dry, 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


185 


A mere  dumb  corpse,  till  Christ  the  Lord  came  down, 
Unlocked  the  doors,  forced  open  the  blank  eyes, 

And  used  his  kingly  chrism  to  straighten  out 
The  leathery  tongue  turned  back  into  the  throat ; 

Since  when,  she  lives,  remembers,  palpitates 
In  every  limb,  aspires  in  every  breath, 

Embraces  infinite  relations.  Now 
W e want  no  half-gods,  Panomphaean  J oves, 

Fauns,  Naiads,  Tritons,  Oreads  and  the  rest, 

To  take  possession  of  a senseless  world 
To  unnatural  vampire-uses.  See  the  earth, 

The  body  of  our  body,  the  green  earth, 

Indubitably  human  like  this  flesh 

And  these  articulated  veins  through  which 

Our  heart  drives  blood.  There ’s  not  a flower  of  spring 

That  dies  ere  June,  but  vaunts  itself  allied 

By  issue  and  symbol,  by  significance 

And  correspondence,  to  that  spirit-world 

Outside  the  limits  of  our  space  and  time, 

Whereto  we  are  bound.  Let  poets  give  it  voice 
With  human  meanings, — else  they  miss  the  thought. 
And  henceforth  step  down  lower,  stand  confessed 
Instructed  poorly  for  interpreters, 

Thrown  out  by  an  easy  cowslip  in  the  text. 

Even  so  my  pastoral  failed : it  was  a book 
Of  surface-pictures — pretty,  cold,  and  false 
With  literal  transcript, — the  worse  done,  I think, 

F or  being  not  ill-done  : let  me  set  my  mark 
Against  such  doings,  and  do  otherwise. 


186 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


This  strikes  me. — If  the  public  whom  we  know 
Could  catch  me  at  such  admissions,  I should  pass 
For  being  right  modest.  Yet  how  proud  we  are, 

In  daring  to  look  down  upon  ourselves ! 

The  critics  say  that  epics  have  died  out 
With  Agamemnon  and  the  goat-nursed  gods ; 

I ’ll  not  believe  it.  I could  never  deem 
As  Payne  Knight  did,  (the  mythic  mountaineer 
Who  travelled  higher  than  he  was  born  to  live, 

And  showed  sometimes  the  goitre  in  his  throat 
Discoursing  of  an  image  seen  through  fog,) 

That  Homer’s  heroes  measured  twelve  feet  high. 
They  were  but  men  : — his'  Helen’s  hair  turned  gray 
Like  any  plain  Miss  Smith’s  who  wears  a front ; 
And  Hector’s  infant  whimpered  at  a plume 
As  yours  last  Friday  at  a turkey-cock. 

All  actual  heroes  are  essential  men, 

And  all  men  possible  heroes  : every  age, 

Heroic  in  proportions,  double-faced, 

Looks  backward  and  before,  expects  a mom 
And  claims  an  epos. 

Ay,  but  every  age 

Appears  to  souls  who  live  in  ’t  (ask  Carlyle) 

Most  unheroic.  Ours,  for  instance,  onrs  : 

The  thinkers  scout  it,  and  the  poets  abound 
Who  scorn  to  touch  it  with  a finger-tip : 

A pewter  age, — mixed  metal,  silver- washed ; 

An  age  of  scum,  spooned  off  the  richer  past, 

An  age  of  patches  for  old  gaberdines, 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


18 


An  age  of  mere  transition,  meaning  nought 
Except  that  what  succeeds  must  shame  it  quite 
If  God  please.  That ’s  wrong  thinking,  to  my  mind, 
And  wrong  thoughts  make  poor  poems. 

Every  age, 

Through  being  beheld  too  close,  is  ill-discerned 
By  those  who  have  not  lived  past  it.  We  ’ll  suppose 
Mount  Athos  carved,  as  Alexander  schemed, 

To  some  colossal  statue  of  a man. 

The  peasants,  gathering  brushwood  in  his  ear, 

Had  guessed  as  little  as  the  browsing  goats 
Of  form  or  feature  of  humanity 
Up  there, — in  fact,  had  travelled  five  miles  off 
Or  ere  the  giant  image  broke  on  them, 

Full  human  profile,  nose  and  chin  distinct, 

Mouth,  muttering  rhythms  of  silence  up  the  sky 
And  fed  at  evening  with  the  blood  of  suns  ; 

Grand  torso, — hand,  that  flung  perpetually 
The  largesse  of  a silver  river  down 
To  all  the  country  pastures.  ’T  is  even  thus 
With  times  we  live  in, — evermore  too  great 
To  be  apprehended  near. 

But  poets  should 

Exert  a double  vision ; should  have  eyes 
To  see  near  things  as  comprehensively 
As  if  afar  they  took  their  point  of  sight, 

And  distant  things  as  intimately  deep 

As  if  they  touched  them.  Let  us  strive  for  this. 

I do  distrust  the  poet  who  discerns 
No  character  or  glory  in  his  times, 


188 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


And  trundles  back  his  soul  five  hundred  years, 

Past  moat  and  drawbridge,  into  a castle-court, 

To  sing — oh,  not  of  lizard  or  of  toad 
Alive  i’  the  ditch  there, — ’t  were  excusable, 

But  of  some  black  chief,  half  knight,  half  sheep-lifter, 
Some  beauteous  dame,  half  chattel  and  half  queen, 

As  dead  as  must  be,  for  the  greater  part, 

The  poems  made  on  their  chivalric  bones ; 

And  that ’s  no  wonder  : death  inherits  death. 

Nay,  if  there ’s  room  for  poets  in  this  world 
A little  overgrown,  (I  think  there  is) 

Their  sole  work  is  to  represent  the  age, 

Their  age,  not  Charlemagne’s, — this  live,  throbbing  age, 
That  brawls,  cheats,  maddens,  calculates,  aspires, 

And  spends  more  passion,  more  heroic  heat, 

Betwixt  the  mirrors  of  its  drawing-rooms, 

Than  Boland  with  his  knights  at  Roncesvalles. 

To  flinch  from  modern  varnish,  coat  or  flounce, 

Cry  out  for  togas  and  the  picturesque, 

Is  fatal, — foolish  too.  King  Arthur’s  self 
Was  commonplace  to  Lady  Guenever ; 

And  Camelot  to  minstrels  seemed  as  flat 
As  Fleet  Street  to  our  poets. 

Never  flinch, 

But  still,  unscrupulously  epic,  catch 

Upon  the  burning  lava  of  a song 

The  full-veined,  heaving,  double-breasted  Age : 

That,  when  the  next  shall  come,  the  men  of  that 
May  touch  the  impress  with  reverent  hand,  and  say 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


189 


‘ Behold,— behold  the  paps  we  all  have  sucked ! 
This  bosom  seems  to  beat  still,  or  at  least 
It  sets  ours  beating : this  is  living  art, 

Which  thus  presents  and  thus  records  true  life.’ 

What  form  is  best  for  poems  ? Let  me  think 
Of  forms  less,  and  the  external.  Trust  the  spirit, 
As  sovran  nature  does,  to  make  the  form ; 

For  otherwise  we  only  imprison  spirit 
And  not  embody.  Inward  evermore 
To  outward, — so  in  life,  and  so  in  art 
Which  still  is  life. 

Five  acts  to  make  a play. 

And  why  not  fifteen  ? why  not  ten  ? or  seven  ? 
What  matter  for  the  number  of  the  leaves, 
Supposing  the  tree  lives  and  grows  ? exact 
The  literal  unities  of  time  and  place, 

When ’t  is  the  essence  of  passion  to  ignore 
Both  time  and  place  ? Absurd.  Keep  up  the  fire, 
And  leave  the  generous  flames  to  shape  themselves. 

’T  is  true  the  stage  requires  obsequiousness 

To  this  or  that  convention ; ‘ exit  ’ here 

And  4 enter  ’ there ; the  points  for  clapping,  fixed, 

Like  Jacob’s  white-peeled  rods  before  the  rams, 

And  all  the  close-curled  imagery  clipped 

In  manner  of  their  fleece  at  shearing-time. 

Forget  to  prick  the  galleries  to  the  heart 
Precisely  at  the  fourth  act, — culminate 
Our  five  pyramidal  acts  with  one  act  more, — 


190 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


We  ’re  lost  so  : Shakspeare’s  ghost  could  scarcely  plead 
Against  our  just  damnation.  Stand  aside  ; 

We  ’ll  muse  for  comfort  that,  last  century, 

On  this  same  tragic  stage  on  which  we  have  failed, 

A wigless  Hamlet  would  have  failed  the  same. 

And  whosoever  writes  good  poetry, 

Looks  just  to  art.  He  does  not  write  for  you 
Or  me, — for  London  or  for  Edinburgh ; 

He  will  not  suffer  the  best  critic  known 
To  step  into  his  sunshine  of  free  thought 
And  self-absorbed  conception  and  exact 
An  inch-long  swerving  of  the  holy  lines. 

If  virtue  done  for  popularity 

Defiles  like  vice,  can  art,  for  praise  or  hire, 

Still  keep  its  splendor  and  remain  pure  art  ? 

Eschew  such  serfdom.  What  the  poet  writes, 

He  writes : mankind  accepts  it  if  it  suits, 

And  that  \s  success : if  not,  the  poem ’s  passed 
From  hand  to  hand,  and  yet  from  hand  to  hand, 

Until  the  unborn  snatch  it,  crying  out 
In  pity  on  their  fathers’  being  so  dull, 

And  that ’s  success  too. 

I will  write  no  plays ; 

Because  the  drama,  less  sublime  in  this, 

Makes  lower  appeals,  submits  more  menially, 

Adopts  the  standard  of  the  public  taste 
To  chalk  its  height  on,  wears  a dog -chain  round 
Its  regal  neck,  and  learns  to  carry  and  fetch 
The  fashions  of  the  day  to  please  the  day, 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


191 


Fawns  close  on  pit  and  boxes,  who  clap  hands 
Commending  chiefly  its  docility 
And  humour  in  stage-tricks, — or  else  indeed 
Gets  hissed  at,  howled  at,  stamped  at  like  a dog, 

Or  worse,  we  ’ll  say.  For  dogs,  unjustly  kicked, 
Yell,  bite  at  need ; but  if  your  dramatist 
(Being  wronged  by  some  five  hundred  nobodies 
Because  their  grosser  brains  most  naturally 
Misjudge  the  fineness  of  his  subtle  wit) 

Shows  teeth  an  almond’s  breath,  protests  the  length 
Of  a modest  phrase, — 4 My  gentle  countrymen, 

* There  ’s  something  in  it  haply  of  your  fault,’ — 
Why  then,  besides  five  hundred  nobodies, 

He  ’ll  have  five  thousand  and  five  thousand  more 
Against  him, — the  whole  public, — all  the  hoofs 
Of  King  Saul’s  father’s  asses,  in  full  drove, 

And  obviously  deserve  it.  He  appealed 
To  these, — and  why  say  more  if  they  condemn, 
Than  if  they  praise  him? — Weep,  my  iEschylus, 
But  low  and  far,  upon  Sicilian  shores ! 

For  since  ’t  was  Athens  (so  I read  the  myth) 

Who  gave  commission  to  that  fatal  weight 
The  tortoise,  cold  and  hard,  to  drop  on  thee 
And  crush  thee, — better  cover  thy  bald  head ; 

She  ’ll  hear  the  softest  hum  of  Hyblan  bee 
Before  thy  loudest  protestation  ! 

Then 

The  risk ’s  still  worse  upon  the  modern  stage  : 

I could  not,  for  so  little,  accept  success, 

Nor  would  I risk  so  much,  in  ease  and  calm, 


192 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


For  manifester  gains  : let  those  who  prize, 

Pursue  them : I stand  off.  And  yet,  forbid, 

That  any  irreverent  fancy  or  conceit 

Should  litter  in  the  Drama’s  throne-room  where 

The  rulers  of  our  art,  in  whose  full  veins 

Dynastic  glories  mingle,  sit  in  strength 

And  do  their  kingly  work, — conceive,  command, 

And,  from  the  imagination’s  crucial  heat, 

Catch  up  their  men  and  women  all  a-flame 
For  action,  all  alive  and  forced  to  prove 
Their  life  by  living  out  heart,  brain,  and  nerve, 

Until  mankind  makes  witness,  4 These  be  men 
As  we  are,’  and  vouchsafes  the  greeting  due 
To  Imogen  and  Juliet — sweetest  kin 
On  art’s  side. 

’T  is  that,  honouring  to  its  worth 
The  drama,  I would  fear  to  keep  it  down 
To  the  level  of  the  footlights.  Dies  no  more 
The  sacrificial  goat,  for  Bacchus,  slain, 

His  filmed  eyes  fluttered  by  the  whirling  white 
Of  choral  vestures, — troubled  in  his  blood, 

While  tragic  voices  that  clanged  keen  as  swords, 
Leapt  high  together  with  the  altar-flame 
And  made  the  blue  air  wink.  The  waxen  mask, 
Which  set  the  grand  still  front  of  Themis’  son 
Upon  the  puckered  visage  of  a player, — 

The  buskin,  which  he  rose  upon  and  moved, 

As  some  tall  ship  first  conscious  of  the  wind 
Sweeps  slowly  past  the  piers, — the  mouthpiece,  where 
The  mere  man’s  voice  with  all  its  breaths  and  breaks 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


193 


Went  sheathed  in  brass,  and  clashed  on  even  heights 
Its  phrased  thunders, — these  things  are  no  more, 
Which  once  were.  And  concluding,  which  is  clear, 
The  growing  drama  has  outgrown  such  toys 
Of  simulated  stature,  face,  and  speech, 

It  also  peradventure  may  outgrow 
The  simulation  of  the  painted  scene, 

Boards,  actors,  prompters,  gaslight,  and  costume, 
And  take  for  a worthier  stage  the  soul  itself, 

Its  shifting  fancies  and  celestial  lights, 

With  all  its  grand  orchestral  silences 
To  keep  the  pauses  of  its  rhythmic  sounds. 

Alas,  I still  see  something  to  be  done, 

And  what  I do,  falls  short  of  what  I see, 

Though  I waste  myself  on  doing.  Long  green  days, 
Worn  bare  of  grass  and  sunshine, — long  calm  nights, 
From  which  the  silken  sleeps  were  fretted  out, 

Be  witness  for  me,  with  no  amateur’s 
Irreverent  haste  and  busy  idleness 
I set  myself  to  art ! What  then  ? what ’s  done  ? 
What ’s  done,  at  last  ? 

Behold,  at  last,  a book. 

If  life-blood ’s  necessary,  which  it  is, — 

(By  that  blue  vein  athrob  on  Mahomet’s  brow, 

Each  prophet-poet’s  book  must  show  man’s  blood !) 

If  life-blood ’s  fertilising,  I wrung  mine 
On  every  leaf  of  this, — unless  the  drops 
Slid  heavily  on  one  side  and  left  it  dry. 

That  chances  often  : man}"  a fervid  man 


o 


194 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


Writes  books  as  cold  and  flat  as  grave-yard  stones 
From  which  the  lichen  ’s  scraped ; and  if  Saint  Prenx 
Had  written  his  own  letters,  as  he  might, 

We  had  never  wept  to  think  of  the  little  mole 
’Neath  Julie’s  drooping  eyelid.  Passion  is 
But  something  suffered,  after  all. 

While  Art 

Sets  action  on  the  top  of  suffering : 

The  artist’s  part  is  both  to  be  and  do, 

Transfixing  with  a special,  central  power 
The  flat  experience  of  the  common  man, 

And  turning  outward,  with  a sudden  wrench, 

Half  agony,  half  ecstasy,  the  thing 
He  feels  the  inmost, — never  felt  the  less 
Because  he  sings  it.  Does  a torch  less  burn 
For  burning  next  reflectors  of  blue  steel, 

That  he  should  be  the  colder  for  his  place 
’Twixt  two  incessant  fires, — his  personal  life’s 
And  that  intense  refraction  which  burns  back 
Perpetually  against  him  from  the  round 
Of  crystal  conscience  he  was  born  into 
If  artist-born  ? 0 sorrowful  great  gift 

Conferred  on  poets,  of  a twofold  life, 

When  one  life  has  been  found  enough  for  pain ! 

We,  staggering  ’neath  our  burden  as  mere  men, 

Being  called  to  stand  up  straight  as  demi-gods, 
Support  the  intolerable  strain  and  stress 
Of  the  universal,  and  send  clearly  up 
With  voices  broken  by  the  human  sob, 

Our  poems  to  find  rhymes  among  the  stars ! 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


But  soft, — a ‘ poet  ’ is  a word  soon  said, 

A book ’s  a thing  soon  written.  Nay,  indeed, 
The  more  the  poet  shall  be  questionable, 

The  more  unquestionably  comes  his  book. 

And  this  of  mine — well,  granting  to  myself 
Some  passion  in  it, — furrowing  up  the  flats, 

Mere  passion  will  not  prove  a volume  worth 
Its  gall  and  rags  even.  Bubbles  round  a keel 
Mean  nought,  excepting  that  the  vessel  moves. 
There ’s  more  than  passion  goes  to  make  a man 
Or  book,  which  is  a man  too. 

I am  sad. 

I wonder  if  Pygmalion  had  these  doubts 
And,  feeling  the  hard  marble  first  relent, 

Grow  supple  to  the  straining  of  his  arms, 

And  tingle  through  its  cold  to  his  burning  lip, 
Supposed  his  senses  mocked,  supposed  the  toil 
Of  stretching  past  the  known  and  seen  to  reach 
The  archetypal  Beauty  out  of  sight, 

Had  made  his  heart  beat  fast  enough  for  two, 
And  with  his  own  life  dazed  and  blinded  him  ! 
Not  so  ; Pygmalion  loved, — and  whoso  loves 
Believes  the  impossible. 

But  I am  sad  : 

I cannot  thoroughly  love  a work  of  mine, 

Since  none  seems  worthy  of  my  thought  and  hope 
More  highly  mated.  He  has  shot  them  down, 

My  Phoebus  Apollo,  soul  within  my  soul, 

Who  judges,  by  the  attempted,  what ’s  attained, 
And  with  the  silver  arrow  from  his  height 


196 


AUKOKA  LEIGH. 


Has  struck  down  all' my  works  before  my  face 
While  I said  nothing.  Is  there  aught  to  say  ? 

I called  the  artist  but  a greatened  man. 

He  may  be  childless  also,  like  a man. 

I laboured  on  alone.  The  wind  and  dust 
And  sun  of  the  world  beat  blistering  in  my  face ; 

And  hope,  now  for  me,  now  against  me,  dragged 
My  spirits  onward,  as  some  fallen  balloon, 

Which,  whether  caught  by  blossoming  tree  or  bare, 

Is  torn  alike.  I sometimes  touched  my  aim, 

Or  seemed, — and  generous  souls  cried  out,  ‘ Be  strong, 
Take  courage  ; now  you  ’re  on  our  level, — now ! 

The  next  step  saves  you !’  I was  flushed  with  praise, 
But,  pausing  just  a moment  to  draw  breath, 

I could  not  choose  but  murmur  to  myself 
‘ Is  this  all  ? all  that 5s  done  ? and  all  that 5s  gained  ? 
If  this  then  be  success,  ’t  is  dismaller 
Than  any  failure.5 

O my  God,  my  God, 

0 supreme  Artist,  who  as  sole  return 
For  all  the  cosmic  wonder  of  Thy  work, 

Demandest  of  us  just  a word  . . a name, 

‘ My  Father  !5  thou  hast  knowledge,  only  thou. 

How  dreary  5t  is  for  women  to  sit  still 

On  winter  nights  by  solitary  fires 

And  hear  the  nations  praising  them  far  off, 

Too  far ! ay,  praising  our  quick  sense  of  love, 

Our  very  heart  of  passionate  womanhood, 

Which  could  not  beat  so  in  the  verse  without 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


197 


Being  present  also  in  the  nnkissed  lips 
And  eyes  undried  because  there  ’s  none  to  ask 
The  reason  they  grew  moist. 

To  sit  alone 

And  think  for  comfort  how,  that  very  night, 

Affianced  lovers,  leaning  face  to  face 

With  sweet  half-listenings  for  each  other’s  breath, 

Are  reading  haply  from  a page  of  ours, 

To  pause  with  a thrill  (as  if  their  cheeks  had  touched } 
When  such  a stanza,  level  to  their  mood, 

Seems  floating  their  own  thought  out — 4 So  I feel 
For  thee,’ — ‘ And  I,  for  thee  : this  poet  knows 
What  everlasting  love  is  !’ — how,  that  night, 

Some  father,  issuing  from  the  misty  roads 
Upon  the  luminous  round  of  lamp  and  hearth 
And  happy  children,  having  caught  up  first 
The  youngest  there  until  it  shrink  and  shriek 
To  feel  the  cold  chin  prick  its  dimples  through 
With  winter  from  the  hills,  may  throw  i’  the  lap 
Of  the  eldest,  (who  has  learnt  to  drop  her  lids 
To  hide  some  sweetness  newer  than  last  year’s) 

Our  book  and  cry,  . . ‘ Ah  you,  you  care  for  rhymes  ; 
So  here  be  rhymes  to  pore  on  under  trees, 

"When  April  comes  to  let  you  ! I ’ve  been  told 
They  are  not  idle  as  so  many  are, 

But  set  hearts  beating  pure  as  well  as  fast. 

’T  is  yours,  the  book ; I ’ll  write  your  name  in  it, 
That  so  you  may  not  lose,  however  lost 
In  poet’s  lore  and  charming  reverie, 

The  thought  of  how  your  father  thought  of  you 


198 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


In  riding  from  the  town.’ 

To  have  our  hooks 

Appraised  by  love,  associated  with  love, 

While  we  sit  loveless  ! is  it  hard,  you  think  ? 

At  least ’t  is  mournful.  Fame,  indeed,  ’t  was  said, 
Means  simply  love.  It  was  a man  said  that : 

And  then,  there ’s  love  and  love  : the  love  of  all 
(To  risk  in  turn  a woman’s  paradox,) 

Is  but  a small  thing  to  the  love  of  one. 

You  bid  a hungry  child  be  satisfied 
With  a heritage  of  many  corn-fields  : nay, 

He  says  he  ?s  hungry, — he  would  rather  have 
That  little  barley-cake  you  keep  from  him 
While  reckoning  up  his  harvests.  So  with  us ; 
(Here,  Romney,  too,  we  fail  to  generalise  !) 

We  ’re  hungry. 

Hungry ! but  it ’s  pitiful 

To  wail  like  unweaned  babes  and  suck  our  thumbs 
Because  we  ’re  hungry.  Who,  in  all  this  world, 
(Wherein  we  are  haply  set  to  pray  and  fast, 

And  learn  what  good  is  by  its  opposite) 

Has  never  hungered?  Woe  to  him  who  has  found 
The  meal  enough ! if  Ugolino ’s  full, 

His  teeth  have  crunched  some  foul  unnatural  thing 
For  here  satiety  proves  penury 
More  utterly  irremediable.  And  since 
We  needs  must  hunger, — better,  for  man’s  love, 
Than  God’s  truth ! better,  for  companions  sweet, 
Than  great  convictions  ! let  us  bear  our  weights, 
Preferring  dreary  hearths  to  desert  souls. 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


199 


Well,  well ! they  say  we  ’re  envious,  we  who  rhyme ; 
But  I,  because  I am  a woman  perhaps 
And  so  rhyme  ill,  am  ill  at  envying. 

I never  envied  Graham  his  breadth  of  style, 

Which  gives  you,  with  a random  smutch  or  two, 
(Near-sighted  critics  analyse  to  smutch) 

Such  delicate  perspectives  of  full  life  : 

Nor  Belmore,  for  the  unity  of  aim 
To  which  he  cuts  his  cedarn  poems,  fine 
As  sketchers  do  their  pencils  : nor  Mark  Gage, 

For  that  caressing  colour  and  trancing  tone 
Whereby  you  ’re  swept  away  and  melted  in 
The  sensual  element,  which  with  a back  wave 
Restores  you  to  the  level  of  pure  souls 
And  leaves  you  with  Plotinus.  None  of  these, 

For  native  gifts  or  popular  applause, 

I ’ve  envied  ; but  for  this, — that  when  by  chance 
Says  some  one, — ‘ There  goes  Belmore,  a great  man ! 

He  leaves  clean  work  behind  him,  and  requires 
No  sweeper  up  of  the  chips,’  . . a girl  I know, 

Who  answers  nothing,  save  with  her  brown  eyes, 

Smiles  unaware  as  if  a guardian  saint 

Smiled  in  her : — for  this,  too, — that  Gage  comes  home 

And  lays  his  last  book’s  prodigal  review 

Upon  his  mother’s  knee,  where,  years  ago, 

He  laid  his  childish  spelling-book  and  learned 
To  chirp  and  peck  the  letters  from  her  mouth, 

As  young  birds  must.  4 Well  done,’  she  murmured  then  ; 
She  will  not  say  it  now  more  wonderingly : 

And  yet  the  last  ‘ Well  done  ’ will  touch  him  more, 


200 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


As  catching  up  to-day  and  yesterday 

In  a perfect  chord  of  love  : and  so,  Mark  Gage, 

I envy  you  your  mother ! — and  you,  Graham, 
Because  you  have  a wife  who  loves  you  so, 

She  half  forgets,  at  moments,  to  he  proud 
Of  being  Graham’s  wife,  until  a friend  observes, 

‘ The  boy  here,  has  his  father’s  massive  brow, 

Done  small  in  wax  . . if  we  push  back  the  curls.’ 

Who  loves  me  ? Dearest  father, — mother  sweet, — 
I speak  the  names  out  sometimes  by  myself, 

And  make  the  silence  shiver.  They  sound  strange, 
As  Hindostanee  to  an  Ind-born  man 
Accustomed  many  years  to  English  speech ; 

Or  lovely  poet-words  grown  obsolete, 

Which  will  not  leave  off  singing.  Dp  in  heaven 
I have  my  father, — with  my  mother’s  face 
Beside  him  in  a blotch  of  heavenly  light ; 

No  more  for  earth’s  familiar,  household  use, 

No  more.  The  best  verse  written  by  this  hand, 
Can  never  reach  them  where  they  sit,  to  seem 
Well-done  to  them . Death  quite  unfellows  us, 

Sets  dreadful  odds  betwixt  the  live  and  dead, 

And  makes  us  part  as  those  at  Babel  did 
Through  sudden  ignorance  of  a common  tongue. 

A living  Caesar  would  not  dare  to  play 
At  bowls  with  such  as  my  dead  father  is. 

And  yet  this  may  be  less  so  than  appears, 

This  change  and  separation.  Sparrows  five 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


201 


For  just  two  farthings,  and  God  cares  for  each. 

If  God  is  not  too  great  for  little  cares, 

Is  any  creature,  because  gone  to  God? 

I Ve  seen  some  men,  veracious,  nowise  mad, 

Who  have  thought  or  dreamed,  declared  and  testified, 
They  heard  the  Dead  a-ticking  like  a clock 
Which  strikes  the  hours  of  the  eternities, 

Beside  them,  with  their  natural  ears, — and  known 
That  human  spirits  feel  the  human  way 
And  hate  the  unreasoning  awe  which  waves  them  off 
From  possible  communion.  It  may  be. 

At  least,  earth  separates  as  well  as  heaven. 

For  instance,  I have  not  seen  Romney  Leigh 
Full  eighteen  months  . . add  six,  you  get  two  years. 
They  say  he ’s  very  busy  with  good  works, — 

Has  parted  Leigh  Hall  into  almshouses. 

He  made  one  day  an  almshouse  of  his  heart, 

Which  ever  since  is  loose  upon  the  latch 
For  those  who  pull  the  string. — I never  did. 

It  always  makes  me  sad  to  go  abroad, 

And  now  I ’m  sadder  that  I went  to-night 
Among  the  lights  and  talkers  at  Lord  Howe’s. 

His  wife  is  gracious,  with  her  glossy  braids, 

And  even  voice,  and  gorgeous  eyeballs,  calm 
As  her  other  jewels.  If  she ’s  somewhat  cold, 

Who  wonders,  when  her  blood  has  stood  so  long 
In  the  ducal  reservoir  she  calls  her  line 
By  no  means  arrogantly?  she  ’s  not  proud  ; 


202 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


Not  prouder  than  the  swan  is  of  the  lake 
He  has  always  swum  in  ; — ’t  is  her  element ; 

And  so  she  takes  it  with  a natural  grace, 

Ignoring  tadpoles.  She  just  knows  perhaps 
There  are  who  travel  without  outriders, 

Which  is  n’t  her  fault.  Ah,  to  watch  her  face, 
"When  good  Lord  Howe  expounds  his  theories 
Of  social  justice  and  equality  ! 

’T  is  curious,  what  a tender,  tolerant  bend 
Her  neck  takes  : for  she  loves  him,  likes  his  talk, 
4 Such  clever  talk— that  dear,  odd  Algernon !’ 

She  listens  on,  exactly  as  if  he  talked 
Some  Scandinavian  myth  of  Lemures, 

Too  pretty  to  dispute,  and  too  absurd. 

She ’s  gracious  to  me  as  her  husband’s  friend, 

And  would  be  gracious,  were  I not  a Leigh, 

Being  used  to  smile  just  so,  without  her  eyes, 

On  Joseph  Strangways,  the  Leeds  mesmerist, 

And  Delia  Dobbs,  the  lecturer  from  4 the  States  ’ 
Upon  the  4 Woman’s  question.’  Then,  for  him, 

I like  him ; he  ’s  my  friend.  And  all  the  rooms 
Were  full  of  crinkling  silks  that  swept  about 
The  fine  dust  of  most  subtle  courtesies. 

What  then  ? — why  then,  we  come  home  to  be  sad. 

How  lovely,  One  I love  not  looked  to-night ! 

She ’s  very  pretty,  Lady  Waldemar. 

Her  maid  must  use  both  hands  to  twist  that  coil 
Of  tresses,  then  be  careful  lest  the  rich 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


203 


Bronze  rounds  should  slip  : — she  missed,  though,  a gray 
hair, 

A single  one, — I saw  it ; otherwise 

The  woman  looked  immortal.  How  they  told, 

Those  alabaster  shoulders  and  bare  breasts, 

On  which  the  pearls,  drowned  out  of  sight  in  milk. 
Were  lost,  excepting  for  the  ruby-clasp  ! 

They  split  the  amaranth  velvet-boddice  down 
To  the  waist  or  nearly,  with  the  audacious  press 
Of  full-breathed  beauty.  If  the  heart  within 
Were  half  as  white ! — but,  if  it  were,  perhaps 
The  breast  were  closer  covered  and  the  sight 
Less  aspectable,  by  half,  too. 

I heard 

The  young  man  with  the  German  student’s  look — 

A sharp  face,  like  a knife  in  a cleft  stick, 

Which  shot  up  straight  against  the  parting  line 
So  equally  dividing  the  long  hair, — 

Say  softly  to  his  neighbour,  (thirty-five 
And  mediaeval)  ‘ Look  that  way,  Sir  Blaise. 

She ’s  Lady  Waldemar — to  the  left, — in  red — 

Whom  Romney  Leigh,  our  ablest  man  just  now, 

Is  soon  about  to  marry.’ 

Then  replied 

Sir  Blaise  JDelorme,  with  quiet,  priestlike  voice, 

Too  used  to  syllable  damnations  round 
To  make  a natural  emphasis  worth  while  : 

4 Is  Leigh  your  ablest  man  ? the  same,  I think, 

Once  jilted  by  a recreant  pretty  maid 
Adopted  from  the  people?  Now,  in  change, 


204 


AUROKA  LEIGH. 


He  seems  to  have  plucked  a flower  from  the  other  side 
Of  the  social  hedge.’ 

‘ A flower,  a flower,’  exclaimed 
My  German  student, — his  own  eyes  full-blown 
Bent  on  her.  He  was  twenty,  certainly. 

Sir  Blaise  resumed  with  gentle  arrogance, 

As  if  be  had  dropped  his  alms  into  a hat 

And  gained  the  right  to  counsel, — ‘ My  young  friend, 

I doubt  your  ablest  man’s  ability 

To  get  the  least  good  or  help  meet  for  him, 

For  pagan  phalanstery  or  Christian  home, 

From  such  a flowery  creature.’ 

‘ Beautiful !’ 

My  student  murmured  rapt, — ‘ Mark  how  she  stirs ! 

J ust  waves  her  head,  as  if  a flower  indeed, 

Touched  far  off  by  the  vain  breath  of  our  talk.’ 

At  which  that  bilious  Grimwald,  (he  who  writes 
For  the  Renovator)  who  had  seemed  absorbed 
Upon  the  table-book  of  autographs, 

(I  dare  say  mentally  he  crunched  the  bones 
Of  all  those  writers,  wishing  them  alive 
To  feel  his  tooth  in  earnest)  turned  short  round 
With  low  carnivorous  laugh, — 4 A flower,  of  course  ! 

She  neither  sews  nor  spins, — and  takes  no  thought 
Of  her  garments  . . falling  off.’ 

The  student  flinched ; 

Sir  Blaise,  the  same ; then  both,  drawing  back  their  chairs 
As  if  they  spied  black-beetles  on  the  floor, 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


205 


Pursued  their  talk,  without  a word  being  thrown 
To  the  critic. 

Good  Sir  Blaise’s  brow  is  high 
And  noticeably  narrow  : a strong  wind, 

You  fancy,  might  unroof  him  suddenly, 

And  blow  that  great  top  attic  off  his  head 
So  piled  with  feudal  relics.  You  admire 
His  nose  in  profile,  though  you  miss  his  chin ; 

But,  though  you  miss  his  chin,  you  seldom  miss 

His  ebon  cross  worn  inner  mostly,  (carved 

For  penance  by  a saintly  Styrian  monk 

Whose  flesh  was  too  much  with  him,)  slipping  through 

Some  unaware  unbuttoned  casualty 

Of  the  under- waistcoat.  With  an  absent  air 

Sir  Blaise  sate  fingering  it  and  speaking  low, 

While  I,  upon  the  sofa,  heard  it  all. 

‘ My  dear  young  friend,  if  we  could  bear  our  eyes, 

Like  blessedest  Saint  Lucy,  on  a plate, 

They  would  not  trick  us  into  choosing  wives, 

As  doublets,  by  the  colour.  Otherwise 

Our  fathers  chose,— -and  therefore,  when  they  had  hung 

Their  household  keys  about  a lady’s  waist, 

The  sense  of  duty  gave  her  dignity ; 

She  kept  her  bosom  holy  to  her  babes, 

And,  if  a moralist  reproved  her  dress, 

’T  was,  ‘ Too  much  starch !’ — and  not,  ‘ Too  little  lawn  !’ 

‘ Now,  pshaw  !’  returned  the  other  in  a heat, 

A little  fretted  by  being  called  ‘ young  friend,’ 


206 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


Or  so  I took  it, — 4 for  Saint  Lucy’s  sake, 

If  she ’s  the  saint  to  swear  by,  let  us  leave 
Our  fathers, — plagued  enough  about  our  sons  !’ 

(He  stroked  his  beardless  chin)  ‘yes,  plagued,  sir, 
plagued : 

The  future  generations  lie  on  us 
As  heavy  as  the  nightmare  of  a seer ; 

Our  meat  and  drink  grow  painful  prophecy  : 

I ask  you, — have  we  leisure,  if  we  liked, 

To  hollow  out  our  weary  hands  to  keep 
Your  intermittent  rushlight  of  the  past 
From  draughts  in  lobbies  ? Prejudice  of  sex 
And  marriage-law  . . the  socket  drops  them  through 
While  we  two  speak, — however  may  protest 
Some  over-delicate  nostrils  like  your  own, 

’Gainst  odours  thence  arising.’ 

‘ You  are  young,’ 

Sir  Blaise  objected. 

‘ If  I am,’  he  said 

With  fire, — 4 though  somewhat  less  so  than  I seem, 

The  young  run  on  before,  and  see  the  thing 
That ’s  coming.  Reverence  for  the  young,  I cry. 

In  that  new  church  for  which  the  world ’s  near  ripe, 
You  ’ll  have  the  younger  in  the  Elder’s  chair, 

Presiding  with  his  ivory  front  of  hope 
O’er  foreheads  clawed  by  cruel  carrion-birds 
Of  life’s  experience.’ 

£ Pray  your  blessing,  sir,’ 

Sir  Blaise  replied  good-humouredly, — 4 1 plucked 
A silver  hair  this  morning  from  my  beard, 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


207 


Which  left  me  your  inferior.  Would  I were 
Eighteen  and  worthy  to  admonish  you  ! 

If  young  men  of  your  order  run  before 
To  see  such  sights  as  sexual  prejudice 
And  marriage-law  dissolved, — in  plainer  words, 

A general  concubinage  expressed 
In  a universal  pruriency, — the  thing 
Is  scarce  worth  running  fast  for,  and  you ’d  gain 
By  loitering  with  your  elders.’ 

‘ Ah,’  he  said, 

4 Wrho,  getting  to  the  top  of  Pisgah-hill, 

Can  talk  with  one  at  bottom  of  the  view, 

To  make  it  comprehensible  ? Why,  Leigh 
Himself,  although  our  ablest  man,  I said, 

Is  scarce  advanced  to  see  as  far  as  this, 

Which  some  are  : he  takes  up  imperfectly 
The  social  question — by  one  handle — leaves 
The  rest  to  trail.  A Christian  socialist 
Is  Romney  Leigh,  you  understand.’ 

4 Not  I. 

I disbelieve  in  Christian-pagans,  much 
As  you  in  women-fishes.  If  we  mix 
Two  colours,  we  lose  both,  and  make  a third 
Distinct  from  either.  Mark  you  ! to  mistake 
A colour  is  the  sign  of  a sick  brain, 

And  mine,  I thank  the  saints,  is  clear  and  cool  : 

A neutral  tint  is  here  impossible. 

The  church, — and  by  the  church,  I mean  of  course 
The  catholic,  apostolic,  mother-church, — 

Draws  lines  as  plain  and  straight  as  her  own  wall ; 


208 


AUKOKA  LEIGH. 


Inside  of  which,  are  Christians,  obviously, 

And  outside  . . dogs.’ 

‘ We  thank  you.  Well  I know 
The  ancient  mother-church  would  fain  still  bite, 

For  all  her  toothless  gums, — as  Leigh  himself 
Would  fain  be  a Christian  still,  for  all  his  wit. 

Pass  that ; you  two  may  settle  it,  for  me. 

You  ’re  slow  in  England.  In  a month  I learnt 

At  Gottingen  enough  philosophy 

To  stock  your  English  schools  for  fifty  years ; 

Pass  that,  too.  Here  alone,  I stop  you  short, 

— Supposing  a true  man  like  Leigh  could  stand 
Unequal  in  the  stature  of  his  life 
To  the  height  of  his  opinions.  Choose  a wife 
Because  of  a smooth  skin  ? — not  he,  not  he  ! 

He ’d  rail  at  Venus’  self  for  creaking  shoes, 

Unless  she  walked  his  way  of  righteousness : 

And  if  he  takes  a Venus  Meretrix, 

(No  imputation  on  the  lady  there) 

Be  sure  that,  by  some  sleight  of  Christian  art, 

He  has  metamorphosed  and  converted  her 
To  a Blessed  Virgin.’ 

‘ Soft ! ’ Sir  Blaise  drew  breath 
As  if  it  hurt  him, — 4 Soft ! no  blasphemy, 

I pray  you !’ 

4 The  first  Christians  did  the  thing : 
Why  not  the  last  ?’  asked  he  of  Gottingen, 

With  just  that  shade  of  sneering  on  the  lip, 
Compensates  for  the  lagging  of  the  beard, — 
k And  so  the  case  is.  If  that  fairest  fair 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


209 


Is  talked  of  as  the  future  wife  of  Leigh, 

She ’s  talked  of  too,  at  least  as  certainly, 

As  Leigh’s  disciple.  You  may  find  her  name 
On  all  his  missions  and  commissions,  schools, 

Asylums,  hospitals, — he  had  her  down, 

With  other  ladies  whom  her  starry  lead 
Persuaded  from  their  spheres,  to  his  country-place 
In  Shropshire,  to  the  famed  phalanstery 
At  Leigh  Hall,  christianised  from  Fourier’s  own, 

(In  which  he  has  planted  out  his  sapling  stocks 
Of  knowledge  into  social  nurseries) 

And  there,  they  say,  she  has  tarried  half  a wreek, 

And  milked  the  cows,  and  churned,  and  pressed  the  curd, 
And  said  4 my  sister  ’ to  the  lowest  drab 
Of  all  the  assembled  castaways ; such  girls  ! 

Ay,  sided  with  them  at  the  washing-tub — 

Conceive,  Sir  Blaise,  those  naked  perfect  arms, 

Round  glittering  arms,  plunged  elbow-deep  in  suds, 
Like  wild  swans  hid  in  lilies  all  a-shake.’ 

Lord  Howe  came  up.  * What,  talking  poetry 
So  near  the  image  of  the  unfavouring  Muse  ? 

That ’s  you,  Miss  Leigh : I ’ve  watched  you  half  an  hour, 
Precisely  as  I watched  the  statue  called 
A Pallas  in  the  Vatican; — you  mind 
The  face,  Sir  Blaise  ? — intensely  calm  and  sad, 

As  wisdom  cut  it  off  from  fellowship, — 

But  that  spoke  louder.  Not  a word  from  you  ! 

And  these  two  gentlemen  were  bold,  I marked, 

And  unabashed  by  even  your  silence.’ 


p 


210 


AUKOKA  LEIGH. 


‘Ah,’ 

Said  I,  ‘ my  dear  Lord  Howe,  you  shall  not  speak 
To  a printing  woman  who  has  lost  her  place, 

(The  sweet  safe  comer  of  the  household  fire 
Behind  the  heads  of  children)  compliments, 

As  if  she  were  a woman.  We  who  have  dipt 
The  curls  before  our  eyes,  may  see  at  least 
As  plain  as  men  do.  Speak  out,  man  to  man  ; 

No  compliments,  beseech  you.’ 

‘ Friend  to  friend, 

Let  that  be.  We  are  sad  to-night,  I saw, 

( — Good  night,  Sir  Blaise  ! ah,  Smith — he  has  slipped 
away) 

I saw  you  across  the  room,  and  stayed,  Miss  Leigh, 

To  keep  a crowd  of  lion-hunters  off, 

With  faces  toward  your  jungle.  There  were  three ; 

A spacious  lady,  five  feet  ten  and  fat, 

Who  has  the  devil  in  her  (and  there ’s  room) 

For  walking  to  and  fro  upon  the  earth, 

From  Ghipewa  to  China ; she  requires 

Your  autograph  upon  a tinted  leaf 

*Twixt  Queen  Pomare’s  and  Emperor  Soulouque’s. 

Pray  give  it ; she  has  energies,  though  fat : 

For  me,  I’d  rather  see  a rick  on  fire 
Than  such  a woman  angry.  Then  a youth 
Fresh  from  the  backwoods,  green  as  the  underboughs, 
Asks  modestly,  Miss  Leigh,  to  kiss  your  shoe, 

And  adds,  he  has  an  epic  in  twelve  parts, 

Which  when  you  ’ve  read,  you  ’ll  do  it  for  his  boot : 
All  which  I saved  you,  and  absorb  next  week 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


211 


Both  manuscript  and  man, — because  a lord 
Is  still  more  potent  than  a poetess 
With  any  extreme  republican.  Ah,  ah, 

You  smile,  at  last,  then.’ 

‘ Thank  you.’ 

‘ Leave  the  smile. 

I ’ll  lose  the  thanks  for ’t, — ay,  and  throw  you  in 
My  transatlantic  girl,  with  golden  eyes, 

That  draw  you  to  her  splendid  whiteness  as 
The  pistil  of  a water-lily  draws, 

Adust  with  gold.  Those  girls  across  the  sea 
Are  tyrannously  pretty, — and  I swore 
(She  seemed  to  me  an  innocent,  frank  girl) 

To  bring  her  to  you  for  a woman’s  kiss, 

Not  now,  but  on  some  other  day  or  week : 

— We  ’ll  call  it  perjury;  I give  her  up.’ 

c No,  bring  her.’ 

‘ Now,’  said  he,  ‘ you  make  it  hard 
To  touch  such  goodness  with  a grimy  palm. 

I thought  to  tease  you  well,  and  fret  you  cross, 

And  steel  myself,  when  rightly  vexed  with  you, 

For  telling  you  a thing  to  tease  you  more.’ 

4 Of  Romney  ?’ 

4 No,  no  ; nothing  worse,’  he  cried, 

4 Of  Romney  Leigh  than  what  is  buzzed  about, — 

That  he  is  taken  in  an  eye-trap  too, 

Like  many  half  as  wise.  The  thing  I mean 
Refers  to  you,  not  him.’ 


212 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


‘ Refers  to  me.’ 

He  echoed, — 4 Me  ! You  sound  it  like  a stone 

Dropped  down  a dry  well  very  listlessly 

By  one  who  never  thinks  about  the  toad 

Alive  at  the  bottom.  Presently  perhaps 

You  ’ll  sound  your  4 me  ’ more  proudly — till  I shrink.’ 

4 Lord  Howe ’s  the  toad,  then,  in  this  question  ? 

4 Brief. 

We  ’ll  take  it  graver.  Give  me  sofa-room, 

And  quiet  hearing.  You  know  Eglinton, 

J ohn  Eglinton,  of  Eglinton  in  Kent  ?’ 

4 Is  he  the  toad  ? — he ’s  rather  like  the  snail, 

Known  chiefly  for  the  house  upon  his  back : 

Divide  the  man  and  house — you  kill  the  man ; 

That ’s  Eglinton  of  Eglinton,  Lord  Howe.’ 

He  answered  grave.  4 A reputable  man, 

An  excellent  landlord  of  the  olden  stamp 
If  somewhat  slack  in  new  philanthropies, 

Who  keeps  his  birthdays  with  a tenants’  dance, 

Is  hard  upon  them  when  they  miss  the  church 
Or  hold  their  children  back  from  catechism, 

But  not  ungentle  when  the  aged  poor 

Pick  sticks  at  hedge-sides  : nay,  I ’ve  heard  him  say, 

4 The  old  dame  has  a twinge  because  she  stoops ; 

4 That ’s  punishment  enough  for  felony.’  ’ 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


213 

4 0 tender-hearted  landlord ! may  I take 
My  long  lease  with  him,  when  the  time  arrives 
For  gathering  winter-faggots  ! ’ 

4 He  likes  art, 

Buys  hooks  and  pictures  . . of  a certain  kind ; 

Neglects  no  patent  duty ; a good  son  ’ . . . 

4 To  a most  obedient  mother.  Born  to  wear 
His  father’s  shoes,  he  wears  her  husband’s  too  : 

Indeed  I ’ve  heard  it ’s  touching.  Hear  Lord  Howe, 
You  shall  not  praise  me  so  against  your  heart, 

When  I ’m  at  worst  for  praise  and  faggots.’ 

4 Be 

Less  bitter  with  me,  for  . . in  short,’  he  said, 

4 1 have  a letter,  which  he  urged  me  so 
To  bring  you  . . I could  scarcely  choose  but  yield ; 
Insisting  that  a new  love,  passing  through 
The  hand  of  an  old  friendship,  caught  from  it 
Some  reconciling  odour.’ 

4 Love,  you  say  ? 

My  lord,  I cannot  love  : I only  find 

The  rhyme  for  love, — and  that ’s  not  love,  my  lord. 

Take  back  your  letter.’ 

4 Pause  : you  ’ll  read  it  first  ?’ 

4 1 will  not  read  it : it  is  stereotyped  ; 

The  same  he  wrote  to, — anybody’s  name, 

Anne  Blythe  the  actress,  when  she  died  so  true, 

A duchess  fainted  in  a private  box : 

Pauline  the  dancer,  after  the  great  pas 


214 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


In  which  her  little  feet  winked  overhead 
Like  other  fire-flies,  and  amazed  the  pit : 

Or  Baldinacci,  when  her  F in  alt 
Had  touched  the  silver  tops  of  heaven  itself 
With  such  a pungent  spirit-dart,  the  Queen 
Laid  softly,  each  to  each,  her  white-gloved  palms, 
And  sighed  for  joy  : or  else  (I  thank  your  friend) 
Aurora  Leigh, — when  some  indifferent  rhymes, 
Like  those  the  boys  sang  round  the  holy  ox 
On  Memphis-highway,  chance  perhaps  to  set 
Our  Apis-public  lowing.  Oh,  he  wants, 

Instead  of  any  worthy  wife  at  home, 

A star  upon  his  stage  of  Eglinton  ? 

Advise  him  that  he  is  not  overshrewd 
In  being  so  little  modest : a dropped  star 
Makes  bitter  waters,  says  a Book  I ’ve  read, — 
And  there ’s  his  unread  letter.’ 


Lord  Howe  began  . . 


‘ My  dear  friend/ 


In  haste  I tore  the  phrase. 
‘ You  mean  your  friend  of  Eglinton,  or  me  V 


* 1 mean  you,  you/  he  answered  with  some  fire. 

‘ A happy  life  means  prudent  compromise  ; 

The  tare  runs  through  the  farmer’s  garnered  sheaves, 
And  though  the  gleaner’s  apron  holds  pure  wheat 
We  count  her  poorer.  Tare  with  wheat,  we  cry, 
And  good  with  drawbacks.  Yrou,  you  love  your  art, 
And,  certain  of  vocation,  set  your  soul 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


215 


On  utterance.  Only,  in  this  world  we  have  made, 
(They  say  God  made  it  first,  but  if  He  did 
’T  was  so  long  since,  and,  since,  we  have  spoiled  it  so, 
He  scarce  would  know  it,  if  He  looked  this  way, 

From  hells  we  preach  of,  with  the  flames  blown  out,) 
— In  this  bad,  twisted,  topsy-turvy  world 
Where  all  the  heaviest  wrongs  get  uppermost, — 

In  this  uneven,  unfostering  England  here, 

Where  ledger-strokes  and  sword-strokes  count  indeed, 
But  soul-strokes  merely  tell  upon  the  flesh 
They  strike  from, — it  is  hard  to  stand  for  art, 

Unless  some  golden  tripod  from  the  sea 
Be  fished  up,  by  Apollo’s  divine  chance, 

To  throne  such  feet  as  yours,  my  prophetess, 

At  Delphi.  Think,- — the  god  comes  down  as  fierce 
As  twenty  bloodhounds,  shakes  you,  strangles  you, 
Until  the  oracular  shriek  shall  ooze  in  froth ! 

At  best ’t  is  not  all  ease, — at  worst  too  hard  : 

A place  to  stand  on  is  a ’vantage  gained, 

And  here ’s  your  tripod.  To  be  plain , dear  friend, 
You  ’re  poor,  except  in  what  you  richly  give ; 

You  labour  for  your  own  bread  painfully, 

Or  ere  you  pour  our  wine.  For  art’s  sake,  pause.’ 

I answered  slow, — as  some  wayfaring  man, 

Who  feels  himself  at  night  too  far  from  home 
Makes  stedfast  face  against  the  bitter  wind. 

4 Is  art  so  less  a thing  than  virtue  is, 

That  artists  first  must  cater  for  their  ease 
Or  ever  they  make  issue  past  themselves 


216 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


To  generous  use  ? alas,  and  is  it  so, 

That  we,  who  would  be  somewhat  clean,  must  sweep 
Our  ways  as  well  as  walk  them,  and  no  friend 
Confirm  us  nobly, — ‘ Leave  results  to  God, 

But  you,  be  clean  ?’  What ! 4 prudent  compromise 
Makes  acceptable  life,’  you  say  instead, 

You,  you,  Lord  Howe  ? — in  things  indifferent,  well. 
For  instance,  compromise  the  wheaten  bread 
For  rye,  the  meat  for  lentils,  silk  for  serge, 

And  sleep  on  down,  if  needs,  for  sleep  on  straw ; 

But  there,  end  compromise.  I will  not  bate 
One  artist-dream  on  straw  or  down,  my  lord, 

Nor  pinch  my  liberal  soul,  though  I be  poor, 

Jlor  cease  to  love  high,  though  I live  thus  low.’ 

So  speaking,  with  less  anger  in  my  voice 
Than  sorrow,  I rose  quickly  to  depart ; 

While  he,  thrown  back  upon  the  noble  shame 
Of  such  high- stumbling  natures,  murmured  words, 
The  right  words  after  wrong  ones.  Ah,  the  man 
Is  worthy,  but  so  given  to  entertain 
Impossible  plans  of  superhuman  life, — 

He  sets  his  virtues  on  so  raised  a shelf, 

To  keep  them  at  the  grand  millennial  height, 

He  has  to  mount  a stool  to  get  at  them  ; 

And,  meantime,  lives  on  quite  the  common  way, 
With  everybody’s  morals. 

As  we  passed, 

Lord  Howe  insisting  that  his  friendly  arm 
Should  oar  me  across  the  sparkling  brawling  stream 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


217 


Which  swept  from  room  to  room, — we  fell  at  once 
On  Lady  Waldemar.  ‘ Miss  Leigh,’  she  said, 

And  gave  me  such  a smile,  so  cold  and  bright, 

As  if  she  tried  it  in  a ’tiring  glass 

And  liked  it ; ‘ all  to-night  I ’ve  strained  at  you 

As  babes  at  baubles  held  up  out  of  reach 

By  spiteful  nurses,  (‘  Never  snatch,’  they  say,) 

And  there  you  sate,  most  perfectly  shut  in 
By  good  Sir  Blaise  and  clever  Mister  Smith 
And  then  our  dear  Lord  Howe ! at  last  indeed 
I almost  snatched.  I have  a world  to  speak 
About  your  cousin’s  place  in  Shropshire  where 
I ’ve  been  to  see  his  work  . . our  work, — you  heard 
I went  ? . . and  of  a letter  yesterday, 

In  which  if  I should  read  a page  or  two 

You  might  feel  interest,  though  you  ’re  locked  of  course 

In  literary  toil. — You  ’ll  like  to  hear 

Your  last  book  lies  at  the  phalanstery, 

As  judged  innocuous  for  the  elder  girls 
And  younger  women  who  still  care  for  books. 

We  all  must  read,  you  see,  before  we  live, 

Till  slowly  the  ineffable  light  comes  up 
And,  as  it  deepens,  drowns  the  written  word, — 

So  said  your  cousin,  while  we  stood  and  felt 
A sunset  from  his  favourite  beech-tree  seat. 

He  might  have  been  a poet  if  he  would, 

But  then  he  saw  the  higher  thing  at  once 
And  climbed  to  it.  I think  he  looks  well  now, 

Has  quite  got  over  that  unfortunate  . . 

Ah,  ah  . .1  know  it  moved  you.  Tender-heart! 


218 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


You  took  a liking  to  the  wretched  girl. 

Perhaps  you  thought  the  marriage  suitable, 

Who  knows  ? a poet  hankers  for  romance, 

And  so  on.  As  for  Romne}^  Leigh,  ’t  is  sure 
He  never  loved  her, — never.  By  the  way, 

You  have  not  heard  of  her  . . ? quite  out  of  sight, 
And  out  of  saving  ? lost  in  every  sense  V 

She  might  have  gone  on  talking  half  an  hour 
And  I stood  still,  and  cold,  and  pale,  I think, 

As  a garden-statue  a child  pelts  with  snow 
For  pretty  pastime.  Every  now  and  then 
I put  in  4 yes  ’ or  4 no,’  I scarce  knew  why ; 

The  blind  man  walks  wherever  the  dog  pulls, 

And  so  I answered.  Till  Lord  Howe  broke  in ; 

4 What  penance  takes  the  wretch  who  interrupts 
The  talk  of  charming  women  ? I,  at  last, 

Must  brave  it.  Pardon,  Lady  Waldemar! 

The  lady  on  my  arm  is  tired,  unwell, 

And  loyally  I ’ve  promised  she  shall  say 
No  harder  word  this  evening,  than  . . goodnight ; 
The  rest  her  face  speaks  for  her.’ — Then  we  went. 

And  I breathe  large  at  home.  I drop  my  cloak, 
Unclasp  my  girdle,  loose  the  band  that  ties 
My  hair  . . now  could  I but  unloose  my  soul ! 

We  are  sepulchred  alive  in  this  close  world, 

And  want  more  room. 

The  charming  woman  there 
This  reckoning  up  and  writing  down  her  talk 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


219 


Affects  me  singularly.  How  she  talked 

To  pain  me ! woman’s  spite. — You  wear  steel-mail ; 

A woman  takes  a housewife  from  her  breast 
And  plucks  the  delicatest  needle  out 
As ’t  were  a rose,  and  pricks  you  carefully 
’Neath  nails,  ’neath  eyelids,  in  your  nostrils, — say, 

A beast  would  roar  so  tortured, — but  a man, 

A human  creature,  must  not,  shall  not  flinch, 

No,  not  for  shame. 

What  vexes,  after  all, 

Is  just  that  such  as  she,  with  such  as  I, 

Knows  how  to  vex.  Sweet  heaven,  she  takes  me  up 
As  if  she  had  fingered  me  and  dog-eared  me 
And  spelled  me  by  the  fireside  half  a life ! 

She  knows  my  turns,  my  feeble  points. — What  then  ? 
The  knowledge  of  a thing  implies  the  thing ; 

Of  course,  she  found  that  in  me,  she  saw  that , 

Her  pencil  underscored  this  for  a fault, 

And  I,  still  ignorant.  Shut  the  book  up, — close  ! 
And  crush  that  beetle  in  the  leaves. 

0 heart, 

At  last  we  shall  grow  hard  too,  like  the  rest, 

And  call  it  self-defence  because  we  are  soft. 

And  after  all,  now,  . . why  should  I be  pained 
That  Romney  Leigh,  my  cousin,  should  espouse 
This  Lady  Waldemar  ? And,  say,  she  held 
Her  newly-blossomed  gladness  in  my  face,  . . 

’T  was  natural  surely,  if  not  generous. 

Considering  how,  when  winter  held  her  fast, 


220 


AURORA  LEIGH 


I helped  the  frost  with  mine,  and  pained  her  more 
Than  she  pains  me.  Pains  me  ! — but  wherefore  pained 
’T  is  clear  my  cousin  Romney  wants  a wife, — 

So,  good  ! — The  man’s  need  of  the  woman,  here, 

Is  greater  than  the  woman’s  of  the  man, 

And  easier  served  ; for  where  the  man  discerns 
A sex,  (ah,  ah,  the  man  can  generalise, 

Said  he)  we  see  but  one,  ideally 

And  really : where  we  yearn  to  lose  ourselves 

And  melt  like  white  pearls  in  another’s  wine, 

He  seeks  to  double  himself  by  what  he  loves, 

And  make  his  drink  more  costly  by  our  pearls. 

At  board,  at  bed,  at  work  and  holiday, 

It  is  not  good  for  man  to  be  alone, 

And  that ’s  his  way  of  thinking,  first  and  last, 

And  thus  my  cousin  Romney  wants  a wife. 

But  then  my  cousin  sets  his  dignity 
On  personal  virtue.  If  he  understands 
By  love,  like  others,  self-aggrandisement, 

It  is  that  he  may  verily  be  great 

By  doing  rightly  and  kindly.  Once  he  thought, 

For  charitable  ends  set  duly  forth 

In  Heaven’s  white  judgment-book,  to  marry  . . ah, 

We  ’ll  call  her  name  Aurora  Leigh,  although 

She ’s  changed  since  then  ! — and  once,  for  social  ends, 

Poor  Marian  Erie,  my  sister  Marian  Erie, 

My  woodland  sister,  sweet  maid  Marian, 

Whose  memory  moans  on  in  me  like  the  wind 
Through  ill-shut  casements,  making  me  more  sad 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


221 


Than  ever  I find  reasons  for.  Alas, 

Poor  pretty  plaintive  face,  embodied  ghost ! 

He  finds  it  easy  then,  to  clap  thee  off 

From  pulling  at  his  sleeve  and  book  and  pen, — 

He  locks  thee  out  at  night  into  the  cold 
Away  from  butting  with  thy  homy  eyes 
Against  his  crystal  dreams,  that  now  he ’s  strong 
To  love  anew  ? that  Lady  Waldemar 
Succeeds  my  Marian  ? 

After  all,  why  not  ? 

He  loved  not  Marian,  more  than  once  he  loved 
Aurora.  If  he  loves  at  last  that  Third, 

Albeit  she  prove  as  slippery  as  spilt  oil 
On  marble  floors,  I will  not  augur  him 
Ill-luck  for  that.  Good  love,  howe’er  ill-placed, 

Is  better  for  a man’s  soul  in  the  end, 

Than  if  he  loved  ill  what  deserves  love  well. 

A pagan,  kissing  for  a step  of  Pan 

The  wild-goat’s  hoof-print  on  the  loamy  down , 

Exceeds  our  modern  thinker  who  turns  back 
The  strata  . . granite,  limestone,  coal,  and  clay, 
Concluding  coldly  with,  ‘ Here ’s  law  ! where ’s  God  ? 

And  then  at  worse, — if  Romney  loves  her  not, — 

At  worst, — if  he ’s  incapable  of  love, 

Which  may  be — then  indeed,  for  such  a man 
Incapable  of  love,  she ’s  good  enough ; 

For  she,  at  worst  too,  is  a woman  still 
And  loves  him  . . as  the  sort  of  woman  can. 


222 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


My  loose  long  hair  began  to  bum  and  creep, 

Alive  to  the  very  ends,  about  my  knees  : 

I swept  it  backward  as  the  wind  sweeps  flame, 

With  the  passion  of  my  hands.  Ah,  Eomney  laughed 
One  day  . . (how  full  the  memories  come  up !) 

‘ — Your  Florence  fire-flies  live  on  in  your  hair,’ 

He  said,  ‘ it  gleams  so.’  Well,  I wrung  them  out, 

My  fire-flies ; made  a knot  as  hard  as  life 
Of  those  loose,  soft,  impracticable  curls, 

And  then  sat  down  and  thought  . . ‘ She  shall  not  think 
Her  thought  of  me,’ — and  drew  my  desk  and  wrote. 

‘ Hear  Lady  Waldemar,  I could  not  speak 
With  people  round  me,  nor  can  sleep  to-night 
And  not  speak,  after  the  great  news  I heard 
Of  you  and  of  my  cousin.  May  you  be 
Most  happy  ; and  the  good  he  meant  the  world, 
Eeplenish  his  own  life.  Say  what  I say, 

And  let  my  word  be  sweeter  for  your  mouth, 

As  you  are  you  . . I only  Aurora  Leigh.’ 

That ’s  quiet,  guarded : though  she  hold  it  up 
Against  the  light,  she  ’ll  not  see  through  it  more 
Than  lies  there  to  be  seen.  So  much  for  pride ; 

And  now  for  peace,  a little.  Let  me  stop 

All  writing  back  . . ‘ Sweet  thanks,  my  sweetest  friend, 

4 You ’ve  made  more  joyful  my  great  joy  itself.’ 

— No,  that ’s  too  simple ! she  would  twist  it  thus, 

‘ My  joy  would  still  be  as  sweet  as  thyme  in  drawers, 
However  shut  up  in  the  dark  and  dry ; 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


223 


But  violets,  aired  and  dewed  by  love  like  yours, 
Out-smell  all  thyme  : we  keep  that  in  our  clothes, 

But  drop  the  other  down  our  bosoms  till 
They  smell  like  ’ . . ah,  I see  her  writing  back 
Just  so.  She  ’ll  make  a nosegay  of  her  words, 

And  tie  it  with  blue  ribbons  at  the  end 
To  suit  a poet ; — pshaw  ! 

And  then  we  ’ll  have 

The  call  to  church,  the  broken,  sad,  bad  dream 
Dreamed  out  at  last,  the  marriage-vow  complete 
With  the  marriage-breakfast ; praying  in  white  gloves, 
Drawn  off  in  haste  for  drinking  pagan  toasts 
In  somewhat  stronger  wine  than  any  sipped 
By  gods  since  Bacchus  had  his  way  with  grapes. 

A postscript  stops  all  that  and  rescues  me. 

‘ You  need  not  write.  I have  been  overworked, 

And  think  of  leaving  London,  England  even, 

And  hastening  to  get  nearer  to  the  sun 
Where  men  sleep  better.  So,  adieu.’ — I fold 

And  seal, and  now  I ’m  out  of  all  the  coil ; 

I breathe  now,  I spring  upward  like  a branch 
The  ten-years  school-boy  with  a crooked  stick 
May  pull  down  to  his  level  in  search  of  nuts, 

But  cannot  hold  a moment.  How  we  twang 
Back  on  the  blue  sky,  and  assert  our  height, 

While  he  stares  after  ! Now,  the  wonder  seems 
That  I could  wrong  myself  by  such  a doubt. 

We  poets  always  have  uneasy  hearts, 

Because  our  hearts,  large-rounded  as  the  globe, 


224 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


Can  turn  but  one  side  to  the  sun  at  once. 

We  are  used  to  dip  our  artist-hands  in  gall 

And  potash,  trying  potentialities 

Of  alternated  colour,  till  at  last 

We  get  confused,  and  wonder  for  our  skin 

How  nature  tinged  it  first.  Well — here ’s  the  true 

Good  flesh-colour ; I recognise  ray  hand, — 

Which  Romney  Leigh  may  clasp  as  just  a friend’s, 
And  keep  his  clean. 

And  now,  my  Italy. 

Alas,  if  we  could  ride  with  naked  souls 
And  make  no  noise  and  pay  no  price  at  all, 

I would  have  seen  thee  sooner,  Italy, 

For  still  I have  heard  thee  crying  through  my  life, 
Thou  piercing  silence  of  ecstatic  graves, 

Men  call  that  name  ! 


But  even  a witch  to-day 
Must  melt  down  golden  pieces  in  the  nard 
Wherewith  to  anoint  her  broomstick  ere  she  rides ; 
And  poets  evermore  are  scant  of  gold, 

And  if  they  find  a piece  behind  the  door 
It  turns  by  sunset  to  a withered  leaf. 

The  Devil  himself  scarce  trusts  his  patented 
Gold-making  art  to  any  who  make  rhymes, 

But  culls  his  Faustus  from  philosophers 

And  not  from  poets.  6 Leave  my  Job,’  said  God  ; 

And  so  the  Devil  leaves  him  without  pence, 

And  poverty  proves  plainly  special  grace. 

In  these  new,  just,  administrative  times 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


225 


Men  clamour  for  an  order  of  merit : why  ? 

Here ’s  black  bread  on  the  table  and  no  wine  ! 

At  least  I am  a poet  in  being  poor, 

Thank  God.  I wonder  if  the  manuscript 
Of  my  long  poem,  if ’t  were  sold  outright, 

Would  fetch  enough  to  buy  me  shoes  to  go 
A-foot,  (thrown  in,  the  necessary  patch 
For  the  other  side  the  Alps)  ? It  cannot  bo. 

I fear  that  I must  sell  this  residue 

Of  my  father’s  books,  although  the  Elzevirs 

Have  fly-leaves  over- written  by  his  hand 

In  faded  notes  as  thick  and  fine  and  brown 

As  cobwebs  on  a tawny  monument 

Of  the  old  Greeks — confer  enda  hcec  cum  his — 

Corrupte  citat — lege  potiiis , 

And  so  on,  in  the  scholar’s  regal  way 
Of  giving  judgment  on  the  parts  of  speech, 

As  if  he  sate  on  all  twelve  thrones  up-piled, 
Arraigning  Israel.  Ay,  but  books  and  notes 
Must  go  together.  And  this  Proclus  too, 

In  these  dear  quaint  contracted  Grecian  types, 
Fantastically  crumpled  like  his  thoughts 
Which  would  not  seem  too  plain  ; you  go  round  twice 
For  one  step  forward,  then  you  take  it  back 
Because  you  ’re  somewhat  giddy  ; there ’s  the  rule 
For  Proclus.  Ah,  I stained  this  middle  Iqpfi 
With  pressing  in ’t  my  Florence  iris-bell, 

Long  stalk  and  all : my  father  chided  me 
For  that  stain  of  blue  blood, — I recollect 


Q 


226 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


The  peevish  turn  his  voice  took, — 4 Silly  girls, 
Who  plant  their  flowers  in  our  philosophy 
To  make  it  fine,  and  only  spoil  the  hook ! 

No  more  of  it,  Aurora.’  Yes — no  more  ! 

Ah,  'blame  of  love,  that ’s  sweeter  than  all  praise 
Of  those  who  love  not ! ’t  is  so  lost  to  me, 

I cannot,  in  such  beggared  life,  afford 
To  lose  my  Proclus, — not  for  Florence  even. 

The  kissing  Judas,  Wolff,  shall  go  instead, 

Who  builds  us  such  a royal  book  as  this 
To  honour  a chief-poet,  folio-built, 

And  writes  above,  4 The  house  of  Nobody  !’ 

Who  floats  in  cream,  as  rich  as  any  sucked 
From  Juno’s  breasts,  the  broad  Homeric  lines, 

And,  while  with  their  spondaic  prodigious  mouths 
They  lap  the  lucent  margins  as  babe-gods, 
Proclaims  them  bastards.  Wolff ’s  an  atheist ; 

And  if  the  Iliad  fell  out,  as  he  says; 

By  mere  fortuitous  concourse  of  old  songs, 
Conclude  as  much  too  for  the  universe. 

That  Wolff,  those  Platos  : sweep  the  upper  shelves 
As  clean  as  this,  and  so  I am  almost  rich, 

Which  means,  not  forced  to  think  of  being  poor 
In  sight  of  ends.  To-morrow  : no  delay. 

I ’ll  wait  in  faris  till  good  Carrington 
Dispose  of  such  and,  having  chaffered  for 
My  book’s  price  with  the  publisher,  direct 
All  proceeds  to  me.  Just  a line  to  ask 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


227 


His  help. 

And  now  I come,  my  Italy, 

My  own  hills  ! Are  you  ’ware  of  me,  my  hills, 
How  I burn  toward  you  ? do  you  feel  to-night 
The  urgency  and  yearning  of  my  soul, 

As  sleeping  mothers  feel  the  sucking  babe 
And  smile  ? — Nay,  not  so  much  as  when  in  heat 
Vain  lightnings  catch  at  your  inviolate  tops 
And  tremble  while  ye  are  stedfast.  Still  ye  go 
Your  own  determined,  calm,  indifferent  way 
Toward  sunrise,  shade  by  shade,  and  light  by  light, 
Of  all  the  grand  progression  nought  left  out, 

As  if  God  verily  made  you  for  yourselves 
And  would  not  interrupt  your  life  with  ours. 


( 229  ) 


SIXTH  BOOK. 


The  English  have  a scornful  insular  way 
Of  calling  the  French  light.  The  levity 
Is  in  the  judgment  only,  which  yet  stands, 

For  say  a foolish  thing  but  oft  enough 
(And  here ’s  the  secret  of  a hundred  creeds, 

Men  get  opinions  as  boys  learn  to  spell, 

By  re-iteration  chiefly,)  the  same  thing 
Shall  pass  at  last  for  absolutely  wise, 

And  not  with  fools  exclusively.  And  so 
We  say  the  French  are  light,  as  if  we  said 
The  cat  mews  or  the  milch-cow  gives  us  milk  : 
Say  rather,  cats  are  milked  and  milch-cows  mew 
For  what  is  lightness  but  inconsequence, 

Vague  fluctuation  ’twixt  effect  and  cause 
Compelled  by  neither  ? Is  a bullet  light, 

That  dashes  from  the  gun-mouth,  while  the  eye 
Winks  and  the  heart  beats  one,  to  flatten  itself 
To  a wafer  on  the  white  speck  on  a wall 
A hundred  paces  off?  Even  so  direct, 

So  sternly  undivertible  of  aim, 


230 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


Is  this  French  people. 

All,  idealists 

Too  absolute  and  earnest,  with  them  all 
The  idea  of  a knife  cuts  real  flesh ; 

And  still,  devouring  the  safe  interval 

Which  Nature  placed  between  the  thought  and  act 

With  those  too  fiery  and  impatient  souls, 

They  threaten  conflagration  to  the  world, 

And  rush  with  most  unscrupulous  logic  on 
Impossible  practice.  Set  your  orators 
To  blow  upon  them  with  loud  windy  mouths 
Through  watchword  phrases,  jest  or  sentiment, 
Which  drive  our  burly  brutal  English  mobs 
Like  so  much  chaff,  whichever  way  they  blow, — 
This  light  French  people  will  not  thus  be  driven. 
They  turn  indeed, — but  then  they  turn  upon 
Some  central  pivot  of  their  thought  and  choice, 
And  veer  out  by  the  force  of  holding  fast. 

That ’s  hard  to  understand,  for  Englishmen 
Unused  to  abstract  questions,  and  untrained 
To  trace  the  involutions,  valve  by  valve, 

In  each  orbed  bulb-root  of  a general  truth, 

And  mark  what  subtly  fine  integument 
Divides  opposed  compartments.  Freedom’s  self 
Comes  concrete  to  us,  to  be  understood, 

Fixed  in  a feudal  form  incarnately 
To  suit  our  ways  of  thought  and  reverence, 

The  special  form,  with  us,  being  still  the  thing. 
With  us,  I say,  though  I ’m  of  Italy 
By  mother’s  birth  and  grave,  by  father’s  grave 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


231 


And  memory  ; let  it  be  ; — a poet’s  heart 
Can  swell  to  a pair  of  nationalities, 

However  ill-lodged  in  a woman’s  breast. 

And  so  I am  strong  to  love  this  noble  France, 

This  poet  of  the  nations,  who  dreams  on 

And  wails  on  (while  the  household  goes  to  wreck) 

For  ever,  after  some  ideal  good, — 

Some  equal  poise  of  sex,  some  unvowed  love 
Inviolate,  some  spontaneous  brotherhood, 

Some  wealth  that  leaves  none  poor  and  finds  none  tired, 
Some  freedom  of  the  many  that  respects 
The  wisdom  of  the  few.  Heroic  dreams  ! 

Sublime,  to  dream  so ; natural,  to  wake  : 

And  sad,  to  use  such  lofty  scaffoldings, 

Erected  for  the  building  of  a church, 

To  build  instead  a brothel  or  a prison — 

May  God  save  France  ! 

And  if  at  last  she  sighs 
Her  great  soul  up  into  a great  man’s  face, 

To  flush  his  temples  out  so  gloriously 
That  few  dare  carp  at  Caesar  for  being  bald, 

What  then  ? — this  Caesar  represents,  not  reigns, 

And  is  no  despot,  though  twice  absolute  : 

This  Head  has  all  the  people  for  a heart ; 

This  purple ’s  lined  with  the  democracy, — 

Now  let  him  see  to  it ! for  a rent  within 
Would  leave  irreparable  rags  without. 


A serious  riddle  : find  such  anywhere 


232 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


Except  in  France  ; and  when  ’tis  found  in  France, 
Be  sure  to  read  it  rightly.  So,  I mused 
Up  and  down,  np  and  down,  the  terraced  streets, 
The  glittering  boulevards,  the  white  colonnades 
Of  fair  fantastic  Paris  who  wears  trees 
Like  plumes,  as  if  man  made  them,  spire  and  tower 
As  if  they  had  grown  by  natnre,  tossing  np 
Her  fountains  in  the  sunshine  of  the  squares, 

As  if  in  beauty’s  game  she  tossed  the  dice, 

Or  blew  the  silver  down-balls  of  her  dreams 
To  sow  futurity  with  seeds  of  thought 
And  count  the  passage  of  her  festive  hours. 

The  city  swims  in  verdure,  beautiful 
As  Venice  on  the  waters,  the  sea-swan. 

What  bosky  gardens  dropped  in  close-walled  courts 
Like  plums  in  ladies’  laps  who  start  and  laugh : 
What  miles  of  streets  that  run  on  after  trees, 

Still  carrying  all  the  necessary  shops, 

Those  open  caskets  with  the  jewels  seen  ! 

And  trade  is  art,  and  art ’s  philosophy, 

In  Paris.  There ’s  a silk  for  instance,  there, 

As  worth  an  artist’s  study  for  the  folds, 

As  that  bronze  opposite  ! nay,  the  bronze  has  faults, 
Art ’s  here  too  artful, — conscious  as  a maid 
Who  leans  to  mark  her  shadow  on  the  wall 
Until  she  lose  a ’vantage  in  her  step. 

Yet  Art  walks  forward,  and  knows  where  to  walk ; 
The  artists  also  are  idealists, 

Too  absolute  for  nature,  logical 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


233 


To  austerity  in  the  application  of 
The  special  theory, — not  a soul  content 
To  paint  a crooked  pollard  and  an  ass, 

As  the  English  will  because  they  find  it  so 
And  like  it  somehow. — There  the  old  Tuileries 
Is  pulling  its  high  cap  down  on  its  eyes, 

Confounded,  conscience-stricken,  and  amazed 
By  the  apparition  of  a new  fair  face 
In  those  devouring  mirrors.  Through  the  grate 
Within  the  gardens,  what  a heap  of  babes, 

Swept  up  like  leaves  beneath  the  chestnut-trees 
From  every  street  and  alley  of  the  town, 

By  ghosts  perhaps  that  blow  too  bleak  this  way 
A-looking  for  their  heads  ! dear  pretty  babes, 

I wish  them  luck  to  have  their  ball-play  out 
Before  the  next  change.  Here  the  air  is  thronged 
With  statues  poised  upon  their  columns  fine 
As  if  to  stand  a moment  were  a feat, 

Against  that  blue  ! What  squares, — what  breathing- 
room 

For  a nation  that  runs  fast, — ay,  runs  against 
The  dentist’s  teeth  at  the  corner  in  pale  rows, 

Which  grin  at  progress  in  an  epigram. 

I walked  the  day  out,  listening  to  the  chink 

Of  the  first  Napoleon’s  dry  bones  in  his  second  grave 

By  victories  guarded  ’neath  the  golden  dome 

That  caps  all  Paris  like  a bubble.  ‘ Shall 

These  dry  bones  live,’  thought  Louis  Philippe  once, 

And  lived  to  know.  Herein  is  argument 


234 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


For  kings  and  politicians,  but  still  more 
For  poets,  wlio  bear  buckets  to  the  well 
Of  ampler  draught. 

These  crowds  are  very  good 
For  meditation  (when  we  are  very  strong) 

Though  love  of  beauty  makes  us  timorous, 

And  draws  us  backward  from  the  coarse  town-sights 
To  count  the  daisies  upon  dappled  fields 
And  hear  the  streams  bleat  on  among  the  hills 
In  innocent  and  indolent  repose, 

While  still  with  silken  elegiac  thoughts 
We  wind  out  from  us  the  distracting  world 
And  die  into  the  chrysalis  of  a man, 

And  leave  the  best  that  may,  to  come  of  us, 

In  some  brown  moth.  I would  be  bold  and  bear 
To  look  into  the  swarthiest  face  of  things, 

For  God’s  sake  who  has  made  them. 

Six  days’  work ; 

The  last  day  shutting  ’twixt  its  dawn  and  eve 
The  whole  work  bettered  of  the  previous  five  ! 

Since  God  collected  and  resumed  in  man 
The  firmaments,  the  strata,  and  the  lights, 

Fish,  fowl,  and  beast,  and  insect, — all  their  trains 
Of  various  life  caught  back  upon  His  arm, 

Eeorganised,  and  constituted  man, 

The  microcosm,  the  adding  up  of  works, — 

WTthin  whose  fluttering  nostrils,  then  at  last 
Consummating  Himself  the  Maker  sighed, 

As  some  strong  winner  at  the  foot-race  sighs 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


235 


Touching  the  goal. 

Humanity  is  great ; 

And,  if  I would  not  rather  pore  upon 
An  ounce  of  common,  ugly,  human  dust, 

An  artisan’s  palm  or  a peasant’s  brow, 

Unsmooth,  ignoble,  save  to  me  and  God, 

Than  track  old  Nilus  to  his  silver  roots, 

Or  wait  on  all  the  changes  of  the  moon 

Among  the  mountain -peaks  of  Thessaly 

(Until  her  magic  crystal  round  itself 

For  many  a witch  to  see  in) — set  it  down 

As  weakness, — strength  by  no  means.  How  is  this 

That  men  of  science,  osteologists 

And  surgeons,  beat  some  poets  in  respect 

For  nature, — count  nought  common  or  unclean, 

Spend  raptures  upon  perfect  specimens 
Of  indurated  veins,  distorted  joints, 

Or  beautiful  new  cases  of  curved  spine, 

While  we,  we  are  shocked  at  nature’s  falling  off, 

We  dare  to  shrink  back  from  her  warts  and  blains, 

We  will  not,  when  she  sneezes,  look  at  her, 

Not  even  to  say  ‘ God  bless  her  ’ ? That ’s  our  wrong  ; 
For  that,  she  will  not  trust  us  often  with 
Her  larger  sense  of  beauty  and  desire, 

But  tethers  us  to  a lily  or  a rose 
And  bids  us  diet  on  the  dew  inside, 

Left  ignorant  that  the  hungry  beggar-boy 
(Who  stares  unseen  against  our  absent  eyes, 

And  wonders  at  the  gods  that  we  must  be, 

To  pass  so  careless  for  the  oranges  !) 


236 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


Bears  yet  a breastfui  of  a fellow- world 
To  this  world,  undisparaged,  undespoiled, 

And  (while  we  scorn  him  for  a flower  or  two, 

As  being,  Heaven  help  ns,  less  poetical) 

Contains  himself  both  flowers  and  firmaments 
And  surging  seas  and  aspectable  stars 
And  all  that  we  would  push  him  out  of  sight 
In  order  to  see  nearer.  Let  us  pray 
God’s  grace  to  keep  God’s  image  in  repute, 

That  so,  the  poet  and  philanthropist 
(Even  I and  Bomney)  may  stand  side  by  side, 
Because  we  both  stand  face  to  face  with  men, 
Contemplating  the  people  in  the  rough, 

Yet  each  so  follow  a vocation,  his 
And  mine. 

I walked  on,  musing  with  myself 
On  life  and  art,  and  whether  after  all 
A larger  metaphysics  might  not  help 
Our  physics,  a completer  poetry 
Adjust  our  daily  life  and  vulgar  wants 
More  fully  than  the  special  outside  plans, 
Phalansteries,  material  institutes, 

The  civil  conscriptions  and  lay  monasteries 
Preferred  by  modern  thinkers,  as  they  thought 
The  bread  of  man  indeed  made  all  his  life, 

And  washing  seven  times  in  the  4 People’s  Baths  ’ 
Were  sovereign  for  a people’s  leprosy, 

Still  leaving  out  the  essential  prophet’s  word 
That  comes  in  power.  On  which,  we  thunder  down 
We  prophets,  poets, — Virtue ’s  in  the  word! 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


237 


The  maker  burnt  the  darkness  up  with  His, 

To  inaugurate  the  use  of  vocal  life  ; 

And,  plant  a poet’s  word  even,  deep  enough 
In  any  man’s  breast,  looking  presently 
For  offshoots,  you  have  done  more  for  the  man 
Than  if  you  dressed  him  in  a broad-cloth  coat 
And  warmed  his  Sunday  potage  at  your  fire. 

Yet  Romney  leaves  me  . . . 

God  ! what  face  is  that  ? 

0 Romney,  0 Marian ! 

Walking  on  the  quays 
And  pulling  thoughts  to  pieces  leisurely, 

As  if  I caught  at  grasses  in  a field 

And  bit  them  slow  between  my  absent  lips 

And  shred  them  with  my  hands  . . 

What  face  is  that  ? 

What  a face,  what  a look,  what  a likeness  ! Full  on  mine 

The  sudden  blow  of  it  came  down,  till  all 

My  blood  swam,  my  eyes  dazzled.  Then  I sprang  . . 

It  was  as  if  a meditative  man 

Were  dreaming  out  a summer  afternoon 

And  watching  gnats  a-prick  upon  a pond, 

When  something  floats  up  suddenly,  out  there, 

Turns  over  . . a dead  face,  known  once  alive  . . 

So  old,  so  new ! it  would  be  dreadful  now 
To  lose  the  sight  and  keep  the  doubt  of  this  : 

He  plunges — ha ! he  has  lost  it  in  the  splash. 

1 plunged — I tore  the  crowd  up,  either  side, 


238 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


And  rushed  on,  forward,  forward,  after  her. 

Her?  whom? 

A woman  sauntered  slow  in  front, 
Munching  an  apple, — she  left  off  amazed 
As  if  I had  snatched  it : that ’s  not  she,  at  least. 

A man  walked  arm-linked  with  a lady  veiled, 

Both  heads  dropped  closer  than  the  need  of  talk  * 
They  started ; he  forgot  her  with  his  face, 

And  she,  herself,  and  clung  to  him  as  if 
My  look  were  fatal.  Such  a stream  of  folk, 

And  all  with  cares  and  business  of  their  own  ! 

I ran  the  whole  quay  down  against  their  eyes  ; 

No  Marian ; nowhere  Marian.  Almost,  now, 

I could  call  Marian,  Marian,  with  the  shriek 
Of  desperate  creatures  calling  for  the  Dead. 

Where  is  she,  was  she  ? was  she  anywhere  ? 

I stood  still,  breathless,  gazing,  straining  out 

In  every  uncertain  distance,  till  at  last 

A gentleman  abstracted  as  myself 

Came  full  against  me,  then  resolved  the  clash 

In  voluble  excuses, — obviously 

Some  learned  member  of  the  Institute 

Upon  his  way  there,  walking,  for  his  health, 

While  meditating  on  the  last  4 Discourse / 

Pinching  the  empty  air  ’twixt  finger  and  thumb, 
From  which  the  snuff  being  ousted  by  that  shock 
Defiled  his  snow-white  waistcoat  duly  pricked 
At  the  button-hole  with  honourable  red ; 

‘ Madame,  your  pardon/ — there  he  swerved  from  me 
A metre,  as  confounded  as  he  had  heard 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


239 


That  Dumas  would  be  chosen  to  fill  up 
The  next  chair  vacant,  by  his  4 men  in  us.’ 

Since  when  was  genius  found  respectable  ? 

It  passes  in  its  place,  indeed, — which  means 
The  seventh  floor  back,  or  else  the  hospital : 
Devolving  pistols  are  ingenious  things, 

But  prudent  men  (Academicians  are) 

Scarce  keep  them  in  the  cupboard  next  the  prunes 

And  so,  abandoned  to  a bitter  mirth, 

I loitered  to  my  inn.  0 world,  0 world, 

0 jurists,  rhymers,  dreamers,  what  you  please, 

We  play  a weary  game  of  hide-and-seek ! 

We  shape  a figure  of  our  fantasy, 

Call  nothing  something,  and  run  after  it 
And  lose  it,  lose  ourselves  too  in  the  search, 

Till  clash  against  us  comes  a somebody 
Who  also  has  lost  something  and  is  lost, 
Philosopher  against  philanthropist, 

Academician  against  poet,  man 

Against  woman,  against  the  living  the  dead, — 

Then  home,  with  a bad  headache  and  worse  jest ! 

To  change  the  water  for  my  heliotropes 
And  yellow  roses.  Paris  has  such  flowers. 

But  England,  also.  ’T  was  a yellow  rose, 

By  that  south  window  of  the  little  house, 

My  cousin  Eomney  gathered  with  his  hand 
On  all  my  birthdays  for  me,  save  the  last ; 

And  then  I shook  the  tree  too  rough,  too  rough, 


240 


AURORA  LEIGH 


For  roses  to  stay  after. 

Now,  my  maps. 

I must  not  linger  here  from  Italy 
Till  the  last  nightingale  is  tired  of  song, 

And  the  last  fire-fly  dies  off  in  the  maize. 

My  soul ’s  in  haste  to  leap  into  the  sun 
And  scorch  and  seethe  itself  to  a finer  mood, 
Which  here,  in  this  chill  north,  is  apt  to  stand 
Too  stiffly  in  former  moulds. 

That  face  persists. 

It  floats  up,  it  turns  over  in  my  mind, 

As  like  to  Marian,  as  one  dead  is  like 
The  same  alive.  In  very  deed  a face 
And  not  a fancy,  though  it  vanished  so ; 

The  small  fair  face  between  the  darks  of  hair, 

I used  to  liken,  when  I saw  her  first, 

To  a point  of  moonlit  water  down  a well : 

The  low  brow,  the  frank  space  between  the  eyes. 
Which  always  had  the  brown  pathetic  look 
Of  a dumb  creature  who  had  been  beaten  once 
And  never  since  was  easy  with  the  world. 

Ah,  ah — now  I remember  perfectly 

Those  eyes,  to-day, — how  overlarge  they  seemed, 

As  if  some  patient  passionate  despair 

(Like  a coal  dropt  and  forgot  on  tapestry, 

Which  slowly  burns  a widening  circle  out) 

Had  burnt  them  larger,  larger.  And  those  eyes 
To-day,  I do  remember,  saw  me  too, 

As  I saw  them,  with  conscious  lids  astrain 
In  recognition.  Now  a fantasy, 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


241 


A simple  shade  or  image  of  the  brain, 

Is  merely  passive,  does  not  retro-act, 

Is  seen,  but  sees  not. 

’T  was  a real  face, 

Perhaps  a real  Marian. 

Which  being  so, 

I onght  to  write  to  Romney,  ‘ Marian ’s  here  ; 

Be  comforted  for  Marian.’ 

My  pen  fell, 

My  hands  struck  sharp  together,  as  hands  do 
Which  hold  at  nothing.  Can  I write  to  him 
A half-truth  ? can  I keep  my  own  soul  blind 
To  the  other  half,  . . the  worse  ? What  are  our  souls, 
If  still,  to  run  on  straight  a sober  pace 
Nor  start  at  every  pebble  or  dead  leaf, 

They  must  wear  blinkers,  ignore  facts,  suppress 
Six  tenths  of  the  road  ? Confront  the  truth,  my  soul ! 
And  oh,  as  truly  as  that  was  Marian’s  face, 

The  arms  of  that  same  Marian  clasped  a thing 
. . Not  hid  so  well  beneath  the  scanty  shawl, 

I cannot  name  it  now  for  what  it  was. 

A child.  Small  business  has  a cast-away 

Like  Marian  with  that  crown  of  prosperous  wives 

At  which  the  gentlest  she  grows  arrogant 

And  says,  4 my  child.’  Who  finds  an  emerald  ring 

On  a beggar’s  middle  finger  and  requires 

More  testimony  to  convict  a thief? 

A child ’s  too  costly  for  so  mere  a wretch  ; 

She  filched  it  somewhere,  and  it  means,  with  her, 

R 


242 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


Instead  of  honour,  blessing,  merely  shame. 

I cannot  write  to  Eomney,  4 Here  she  is, 

Here ’s  Marian  found ! I ’ll  set  you  on  her  tract : 

I saw  her  here,  in  Paris,  . . and  her  child. 

She  put  away  your  love  two  years  ago, 

But,  plainly,  not  to  starve.  You  suffered  then ; 

And,  now  that  you ’ve  forgot  her  utterly 
As  any  last  year’s  annual,  in  whose  place 
You ’ve  planted  a thick  flowering  evergreen, 

I choose,  being  kind,  to  write  and  tell  you  this 
To  make  you  wholly  easy — she ’s  not  dead, 

But  only  . . damned.’ 

Stop  there  : I go  too  fast ; 

I ’m  cruel  like  the  rest, — in  haste  to  take 
The  first  stir  in  the  arras  for  a rat, 

And  set  my  barking,  biting  thoughts  upon ’t. 

— A child  ! what  then  ? Suppose  a neighbour ’s  sick 
And  asked  her,  4 Marian,  carry  out  my  child 
In  this  Spring  air,’ — I punish  her  for  that  ? 

Or  say,  the  child  should  hold  her  round  the  neck 

For  good  child-reasons,  that  he  liked  it  so 

And  would  not  leave  her — she  had  winning  ways — 

I brand  her  therefore  that  she  took  the  child  ? 

Not  so. 

I will  not  write  to  Eomney  Leigh. 

For  now  he ’s  happy, — and  she  may  indeed 
Be  guilty  , — and  the  knowledge  of  her  fault 
Would  draggle  his  smooth  time.  But  I,  whose  days 
Are  not  so  fine  they  cannot  bear  the  rain, 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


243 


And  who  moreover  having  seen  her  face 
Mnst  see  it  again,  . . will  see  it,  by  my  hopes 
Of  one  day  seeing  heaven  too.  The  police 
Shall  track  her,  hound  her,  ferret  their  own  soil ; 

We  ’ll  dig  this  Paris  to  its  catacombs 
But  certainly  we  ’ll  find  her,  have  her  out, 

And  save  her,  if  she  will  or  will  not — child 
Or  no  child, — if  a child,  then  one  to  save ! 

The  long  weeks  passed  on  without  consequence. 

As  easy  find  a footstep  on  the  sand 

The  morning  after  spring-tide,  as  the  trace 

Of  Marian’s  feet  between  the  incessant  surfs 

Of  this  live  flood.  She  may  have  moved  this  way, — 

But  so  the  star-fish  does,  and  crosses  out 

The  dent  of  her  small  shoe.  The  foiled  police 

Eenounced  me.  ‘ Could  they  find  a girl  and  child, 

No  other  signalment  but  girl  and  child? 

No  data  shown  but  noticeable  eyes 
And  hair  in  masses,  low  upon  the  brow, 

As  if  it  were  an  iron  crown  and  pressed  ? 

Friends  heighten,  and  suppose  they  specify : 

Why,  girls  with  hair  and  eyes  are  everywhere 
In  Paris  ; they  had  turned  me  up  in  vain 
No  Marian  Erie  indeed,  but  certainly 
Mathildes,  Justines,  Yictoires,  . . or,  if  I sought 
The  English,  Betsis,  Saras,  by  the  score. 

They  might  as  well  go  out  into  the  fields 
To  find  a speckled  bean,  that’s  somehow  specked, 
And  somewhere  in  the  pod.’ — They  left  me  so. 


244 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


Shall  I leave  Marian  ? have  I dreamed  a dream  ? 

— I thank  God  I have  found  her ! I must  say 
‘ Thank  God,5  for  finding  her,  although  ’t  is  true 
I find  the  world  more  sad  and  wicked  for ’t. 

But  she — 

I 11  write  about  her,  presently. 

My  hand ’s  a-tremble,  as  I had  just  caught  up 
My  heart  to  write  with,  in  the  place  of  it. 

At  least  you ’d  take  these  letters  to  be  writ 
At  sea,  in  storm  ! — wait  now  . . 

A simple  chance 

Did  all.  I could  not  sleep  last  night,  and,  tired 
Of  turning  on  my  pillow  and  harder  thoughts, 

Went  out  at  early  morning,  when  the  air 
Is  delicate  with  some  last  starry  touch, 

To  wander  through  the  Market-place  of  Flowers 
(The  prettiest  haunt  in  Paris),  and  make  sure 
At  worst  that  there  were  roses  in  the  world. 

So  wandering,  musing,  with  the  artist’s  eye, 

That  keeps  the  shade-side  of  the  thing  it  loves, 
Half-absent,  whole-observing,  while  the  crowd 
Of  young  vivacious  and  black-braided  heads 
Dipped,  quick  as  finches  in  a blossomed  tree, 

Among  the  nosegays,  cheapening  this  and  that 
In  such  a cheerful  twitter  of  rapid  speech, — 

My  heart  leapt  in  me,  startled  by  a voice 

That  slowly,  faintly,  with  long  breaths  that  marked 

The  interval  between  the  wish  and  word, 

Inquired  in  stranger’s  French,  ‘Would  that  be  much 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


245 


That  branch  of  flowering  mountain-gorse  ?’ — 4 So  much  ? 
Too  much  for  me,  then  !’  turning  the  face  round 
So  close  upon  me  that  I felt  the  sigh 
It  turned  with. 

‘ Marian,  Marian  !’ — face  to  face — 

4 Marian  ! I find  you.  Shall  I let  you  go  V 
I held  her  two  slight  wrists  with  both  my  hands  ; 

4 Ah  Marian,  Marian,  can  I let  you  go  ?’ 

— She  fluttered  from  me  like  a cyclamen, 

As  white,  which  taken  in  a sudden  wind 
Beats  on  against  the  palisade. — 4 Let  pass/ 

She  said  at  last.  4 1 will  not/  I replied ; 

4 1 lost  my  sister  Marian  many  days, 

And  sought  her  ever  in  my  walks  and  prayers, 

And,  now  I find  her  ...  do  we  throw  away 
The  bread  we  worked  and  prayed  for, — crumble  it 
And  drop  it,  . . to  do  even  so  by  thee 
Whom  still  I Ve  hungered  after  more  than  bread, 

My  sister  Marian  ? — can  I hurt  thee,  dear  ? 

Then  why  distrust  me  ? Never  tremble  so. 

Come  with  me  rather  where  we  11  talk  and  live 
And  none  shall  vex  us.  I Ve  a home  for  you 
And  me  and  no  one  else  ’ . . . 

She  shook  her  head, 

4 A home  for  you  and  me  and  no  one  else 
Ill-suits  one  of  us  : I prefer  to  such, 

A roof  of  grass  on  which  a flower  might  spring, 

Less  costly  to  me  than  the  cheapest  here ; 

And  yet  I could  not,  at  this  hour,  afford 
A like  home  even.  That  you  offer  yours, 


246 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


I tliank  you.  You  are  good  as  heaven  itself — 

As  good  as  one  I knew  before  . . Farewell.5 

I loosed  her  hands, — 4 In  his  name,  no  farewell  !5 
(She  stood  as  if  I held  her.)  ‘For  his  sake, 

For  his  sake,  Romney’s  ! by  the  good  he  meant, 

Ay,  always  ! by  the  love  he  pressed  for  once, — 

And  by  the  grief,  reproach,  abandonment, 

He  took  in  change  5 . . 

4 He  Romney  ! who  grieved  him  ? 
Who  had  the  heart  for  5t  ? what  reproach  touched  him  ? 
Be  merciful, — speak  quickly.5 

4 Therefore  come,5 

I answered  with  authority. — 4 1 think 

We  dare  to  speak  such  things  and  name  such  names 

In  the  open  squares  of  Paris !’ 

Not  a word 

She  said,  but  in  a gentle  humbled  way 
(As  one  who  had  forgot  herself  in  grief) 

Turned  round  and  followed  closely  where  I went, 

As  if  I led  her  by  a narrow  plank 
Across  devouring  waters,  step  by  step ; 

And  so  in  silence  we  walked  on  a mile. 


And  then  she  stopped : her  face  was  white  as  wax. 
4 We  go  much  farther?5 

‘ You  are  ill,’  I asked, 


4 Or  tired  ?5 


She  looked  the  whiter  for  her  smile. 
4 There  5s  one  at  home,’  she  said,  4 has  need  of  me 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


247 


By  this  time, — and  I must  not  let  him  wait.’ 

‘Not  even/  I asked,  ‘to  hear  of  Romney  Leigh9’ 

‘ Not  even/  she  said,  ‘ to  hear  of  Mister  Leigh.’ 

‘ In  that  case,’  I resumed,  ‘ I go  with  you, 

And  we  can  talk  the  same  thing  there  as  here. 

None  waits  for  me  : I have  my  day  to  spend.’ 

Her  lips  moved  in  a spasm  without  a sound, — 

But  then  she  spoke.  ‘ It  shall  he  as  you  please ; 
And  better  so — ’t  is  shorter  seen  than  told  : 

And  though  you  will  not  find  me  worth  your  pains, 
That , even,  may  be  worth  some  pains  to  know 
For  one  as  good  as  you  are.’ 

Then  she  led 

The  way,  and  I,  as  by  a narrow  plank 
Across  devouring  waters,  followed  her, 

Stepping  by  her  footsteps,  breathing  by  her  breath, 
And  holding  her  with  eyes  that  would  not  slip ; 
And  so,  without  a word,  we  walked  a mile, 

And  so,  another  mile,  without  a word. 

Until  the  peopled  streets  being  all  dismissed, 
House-rows  and  groups  all  scattered  like  a flock, 
The  market-gardens  thickened,  and  the  long 
White  walls  beyond,  like  spiders’  outside  threads, 
Stretched,  feeling  blindly  toward  the  country-fields 
Through  half-built  habitations  and  half- dug 


248 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


Foundations, — intervals  of  trenchant  chalk 

That  bit  betwixt  the  grassy  uneven  turfs 

Where  goats  (vine-tendrils  trailing  from  their  mouths) 

Stood  perched  on  edges  of  the  cellarage 

Which  should  be,  staring  as  about  to  leap 

To  find  their  coming  Bacchus.  All  the  place 

Seemed  less  a cultivation  than  a waste. 

Men  work  here,  only, — scarce  begin  to  live  : 

All ’s  sad,  the  country  struggling  with  the  town, 

Like  an  untamed  hawk  upon  a strong  man’s  fist, 

That  beats  its  wings  and  tries  to  get  away, 

And  cannot  choose  be  satisfied  so  soon 

To  hop  through  court-yards  with  its  right  foot  tied. 

The  vintage  plains  and  pastoral  hills  in  sight. 

We  stopped  beside  a house  too  high  and  slim 
To  stand  there  by  itself,  but  waiting  till 
Five  others,  two  on  this  side,  three  on  that, 

Should  grow  up  from  the  sullen  second  floor 
They  pause  at  now,  to  build  it  to  a row. 

The  upper  windows  partly  were  unglazed 
Meantime, — a meagre,  unripe  house  : a line 
Of  rigid  poplars  elbowed  it  behind, 

And,  just  in  front,  beyond  the  lime  and  bricks 
That  wronged  the  grass  between  it  and  the  road, 

A great  acacia  with  its  slender  trunk 
And  overpoise  of  multitudinous  leaves 
(In  which  a hundred  fields  might  spill  their  dew 
And  intense  verdure,  yet  find  room  enough) 

Stood  reconciling  all  the  place  with  green. 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


249 


I followed  up  the  stair  upon  her  step. 

She  hurried  upward,  shot  across  a face, 

A woman’s,  on  the  landing, — ‘ How  now,  now ! 

Is  no  one  to  have  holidays  hut  you  ? 

You  said  an  hour,  and  stay  three  hours,  I think, 

And  Julie  waiting  for  your  betters  here  ? 

Why  if  he  had  waked  he  might  have  waked,  for  me.5 
— Just  murmuring  an  excusing  word  she  passed 
And  shut  the  rest  out  with  the  chamber-door, 

Myself  shut  in  beside  her. 

’Twas  a room 

Scarce  larger  than  a grave,  and  near  as  bare ; 

Two  stools,  a pallet-bed ; I saw  the  room : 

A mouse  could  find  no  sort  of  shelter  in  % 

Much  less  a greater  secret ; curtainless, — 

The  window  fixed  you  with  its  torturing  eye, 
Defying  you  to  take  a step  apart 
If  peradventure  you  would  hide  a thing. 

I saw  the  whole  room,  I and  Marian  there 
Alone. 

Alone  ? She  threw  her  bonnet  off, 

Then,  sighing  as  ’t  were  sighing  the  last  time, 
Approached  the  bed,  and  drew  a shawl  away : 

You  could  not  peel  a fruit  you  fear  to  bruise 
More  calmly  and  more  carefully  than  so, — 

Nor  would  you  find  within,  a rosier  flushed 
Pomegranate — 

There  he  lay  upon  his  back, 
The  yearling  creature,  warm  and  moist  with  life 
To  the  bottom  of  his  dimples, — to  the  ends 


250 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


Of  the  lovely  tumbled  curls  about  his  face ; 

For  since  he  had  been  covered  over-much 
To  keep  him  from  the  light-glare,  both  his  cheeks 
Were  hot  and  scarlet  as  the  first  live  rose 
The  shepherd’s  heart-blood  ebbed  away  into 
The  faster  for  his  love.  And  love  was  here 
As  instant ; in  the  pretty  baby-mouth, 

Shut  close  as  if  for  dreaming  that  it  sucked, 

The  little  naked  feet,  drawn  up  the  way 
Of  nestled  birdlings  ; everything  so  soft 
And  tender, — to  the  tiny  holdfast  hands, 

Which,  closing  on  a finger  into  sleep, 

Had  kept  the  mould  of ’t. 

While  we  stood  there  dumb, 
For  oh,  that  it  should  take  such  innocence 
To  prove  just  guilt,  I thought,  and  stood  there  dumb, — 
The  light  upon  his  eyelids  pricked  them  wide, 

And,  staring  out  at  us  with  all  their  blue, 

As  half  perplexed  between  the  angelhood 
He  had  been  away  to  visit  in  his  sleep, 

And  our  most  mortal  presence,  gradually 
He  saw  his  mother’s  face,  accepting  it 
In  change  for  heaven  itself  with  such  a smile 
As  might  have  well  been  learnt  there, — never  moved, 
But  smiled  on,  in  a drowse  of  ecstasy, 

So  happy  (half  with  her  and  half  with  heaven) 

He  could  not  have  the  trouble  to  be  stirred, 

But  smiled  and  lay  there.  Like  a rose,  I said  ? 

As  red  and  still  indeed  as  any  rose, 

That  blows  in  all  the  silence  of  its  leaves, 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


251 


Content  in  blowing  to  fulfil  its  life. 

She  leaned  above  him  (drinking  him  as  wine) 

In  that  extremity  of  love,  ’t  will  pass 
For  agony  or  rapture,  seeing  that  love 
Includes  the  whole  of  nature,  rounding  it 
To  love  . . no  more, — since  more  can  never  be 
Than  just  love.  Self-forgot,  cast  out  of  self, 

And  drowning  in  the  transport  of  the  sight, 
tier  whole  pale  passionate  face,  mouth,  forehead,  eyes, 
One  gaze,  she  stood : then,  slowly  as  he  smiled 
She  smiled  too,  slowly,  smiling  unaware, 

And  drawing  from  his  countenance  to  hers 
A fainter  red,  as  if  she  watched  a flame 
And  stood  in  it  a-glow.  ‘ How  beautiful,’ 

Said  she. 

I answered,  trying  to  be  cold. 

(Must  sin  have  compensations,  was  my  thought, 

As  if  it  were  a holy  thing  like  grief? 

And  is  a woman  to  be  fooled  aside 

From  putting  vice  down,  with  that  woman’s  toy 

A baby  ?) ‘ Ay ! the  child  is  well  enough,’ 

I answered.  4 If  his  mother’s  palms  are  clean 
They  need  be  glad  of  course  in  clasping  such  ; 

But  if  not,  I would  rather  lay  my  hand, 

Were  I she,  on  God’s  brazen  altar-bars 
Bed-hot  with  burning  sacrificial  lambs, 

Than  touch  the  sacred  curls  of  such  a child.’ 

She  plunged  her  fingers  in  his  clustering  locks, 


252 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


As  one  who  would  not  be  afraid  of  fire ; 

And  then  with  indrawn  steady  utterance  said, 

4 My  lamb,  my  lamb  ! although,  through  such  as  thou, 
The  most  unclean  got  courage  and  approach 
To  God,  once, — now  they  cannot,  even  with  men, 
Find  grace  enough  for  pity  and  gentle  words.’ 

4 My  Marian,’  I made  answer,  grave  and  sad, 

4 The  priest  who  stole  a lamb  to  offer  him, 

Was  still  a thief.  And  if  a woman  steals 
(Through  God’s  own  barrier-hedges  of  true  love, 
Which  fence  out  licence  in  securing  love) 

A child  like  this,  that  smiles  so  in  her  face, 

She  is  no  mother  but  a kidnapper, 

And  he ’s  a dismal  orphan,  not  a son, 

Wliom  all  her  kisses  cannot  feed  so  full 
He  will  not  miss  hereafter  a pure  home 
To  live  in,  a pure  heart  to  lean  against, 

A pure  good  mother’s  name  and  memory 
To  hope  by,  when  the  world  grows  thick  and  bad 
And  he  feels  out  for  virtue.’ 

4 Ob,’  she  smiled 

With  bitter  patience,  4 the  child  takes  his  chance  ; 

Not  much  worse  off  in  being  fatherless 
Than  I was,  fathered.  He  will  say,  belike, 

His  mother  was  the  saddest  creature  born  ; 

He  ’ll  say  his  mother  lived  so  contrary 
To  joy,  that  even  the  kindest,  seeing  her, 

Grew  sometimes  almost  cruel : he  ’ll  not  say 
She  flew  contrarious  in  the  face  of  God 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


253 


With  bat- wings  of  her  vices.  Stole  my  child, — 

My  flower  of  earth,  my  only  flower  on  earth, 

My  sweet,  my  beauty . Up  she  snatched  the  child, 
And,  breaking  on  him  in  a storm  of  tears, 

Drew  out  her  long  sobs  from  their  shivering  roots, 
Until  he  took  it  for  a game,  and  stretched 
His  feet  and  flapped  his  eager  arms  like  wings 
And  crowed  and  gurgled  through  his  infant  laugh : 

4 Mine,  mine,’  she  said.  4 1 have  as  sure  a right 
As  any  glad  proud  mother  in  the  world, 

Who  sets  her  darling  down  to  cut  his  teeth 
Upon  her  church-ring.  If  she  talks  of  law, 

I talk  of  law  ! I claim  my  mother-dues 
By  law, — the  law  which  now  is  paramount, — 

The  common  law,  by  which  the  poor  and  weak 
Are  trodden  underfoot  by  vicious  men, 

And  loathed  for  ever  after  by  the  good. 

Let  pass  ! I did  not  filch, — I found  the  child. 

4 You  found  him,  Marian  ? 

4 Ay,  I found  him  where 
I found  my  curse, — in  the  gutter,  with  my  shame  ! 
What  have  you,  any  of  you,  to  say  to  that, 

Who  all  are  happy,  and  sit  safe  and  high, 

And  never  spoke  before  to  arraign  my  right 
To  grief  itself?  What,  what,  . . being  beaten  down 
By  hoofs  of  maddened  oxen  into  a ditch, 

Half-dead,  whole  mangled,  when  a girl  at  last 
Breathes,  sees  . . and  finds  there,  bedded  in  her  flesh 
Because  of  the  extremity  of  the  shock, 


254 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


Some  coin  of  price ! . . and  when  a good  man  comes 
(That ’s  God ! the  best  men  are  not  quite  as  good) 
And  says,  4 1 dropped  the  coin  there  : take  it  you, 
And  keep  it, — it  shall  pay  you  for  the  loss,’ — 

You  all  put  up  your  finger — 4 See  the  thief ! 

4 Observe  what  precious  thing  she  has  come  to  filch. 
4 How  bad  those  girls  are  !’  Oh,  my  flower,  my  pet 
I dare  forget  I have  you  in  my  arms 
And  fly  off  to  be  angry  with  the  world, 

And  fright  you,  hurt  you  with  my  tempers,  till 
You  double  up  your  lip  ? Why,  that  indeed 
Is  bad : a naughty  mother !’ 

4 You  mistake, 

I interrupted  ; 4 if  I loved  you  not, 

I should  not,  Marian,  certainly  be  here.’ 

4 Alas,’  she  said,  4 you  are  so  very  good ; 

And  yet  I wish  indeed  you  had  never  come 
To  make  me  sob  until  I vex  the  child. 

It  is  not  wholesome  for  these  pleasure-plats 
To  be  so  early  watered  by  our  brine. 

And  then,  who  knows  ? he  may  not  like  me  now 
As  well,  perhaps,  as  ere  he  saw  me  fret, — 

One  Vugly  fretting  ! he  has  eyes  the  same 
As  angels,  but  he  cannot  see  as  deep, 

And  so  I ’ve  kept  for  ever  in  his  sight 
A sort  of  smile  to  please  him, — as  you  place 
A green  thing  from  the  garden  in  a cup, 

To  make  believe  it  grows  there.  Look,  my  sweet, 
My  cowslip-ball ! we ’ve  done  with  that  cross  face, 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


255 


And  here ’s  the  face  come  back  yon  used  to  like. 

Ah,  ah  ! he  langhs  ! he  likes  me.  Ah,  Miss  Leigh, 

You  ’re  great  and  pure  ; but  were  you  purer  still, — 

As  if  you  had  walked,  we  ’ll  say,  no  otherwhere 
Than  up  and  down  the  new  Jerusalem, 

And  held  your  trailing  lutestring  up  yourself 
From  brushing  the  twelve  stones,  for  fear  of  some 
Small  speck  as  little  as  a needle-prick, 

White  stitched  on  white, — the  child  would  keep  to  me, 
Would  choose  his  poor  lost  Marian,  like  me  best, 

And,  though  you  stretched  your  arms,  cry  back  and  cling, 
As  we  do  Avhen  God  says  it ’s  time  to  die 
And  bids  us  go  up  higher.  Leave  us,  then ; 

We  two  are  happy,  Does  he  push  me  off? 

He ’s  satisfied  with  me,  as  I with  him.’ 

‘ So  soft  to  one,  so  hard  to  others  ! Nay,’ 

I cried,  more  angry  that  she  melted  me, 

‘ We  make  henceforth  a cushion  of  our  faults 
To  sit  and  practise  easy  virtues  on  ? 

I thought  a child  was  given  to  sanctify 
A woman, — set  her  in  the  sight  of  all 
The  clear-eyed  Heavens,  a chosen  minister 
To  do  their  business  and  lead  spirits  up 
The  difficult  blue  heights.  A woman  lives, 

Not  bettered,  quickened  toward  the  truth  and  good 
Through  being  a mother  ? . . then  she ’s  none  ! although 
She  damps  her  baby’s  cheeks  by  kissing  them, 

As  we  kill  roses.’ 


4 Kill ! 0 Christ,’  she  said, 


256 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


And  turned  her  wild  sad  face  from  side  to  side 
With  most  despairing  wonder  in  it,  ‘What, 

What  have  yon  in  yonr  souls  against  me  then, 

All  of  you?  am  I wicked,  do  you  think? 

God  knows  me,  trusts  me  with  the  child ; hut  you. 
You  think  me  really  wicked  ?’ 

4 Complaisant,’ 

I answered  softly,  4 to  a wrong  you ’ve  done, 
Because  of  certain  profits, — which  is  wrong 
Beyond  the  first  wrong,  Marian.  When  you  left 
The  pure  place  and  the  noble  heart,  to  take 
The  hand  of  a seducer  ’ . . 

4 Whom  ? whose  hand  ? 

I took  the  hand  of  ’ . . 

Springing  up  erect 

And  lifting  up  the  child  at  full  arm’s  length, 

As  if  to  bear  him  like  an  oriflamme 
Unconquerable  to  armies  of  reproach, — 

4 By  him ,’  she  said,  4 my  child’s  head  and  its  curls, 
By  these  blue  eyes  no  woman  born  could  dare 
A perjury  on,  I make  my  mother’s  oath, 

That  if  I left  that  Heart,  to  lighten  it, 

The  blood  of  mine  was  still,  except  for  grief ! 

No  cleaner  maid  than  I was,  took  a step 
To  a sadder  end, — no  matron-mother  now 
Looks  backward  to  her  early  maidenhood 
Through  chaster  pulses.  I speak  steadily  ; 

And  if  I lie  so,  . . if,  being  fouled  in  will 
And  paltered  with  in  soul  by  devil’s  lust, 

I dared  to  bid  this  angel  take  my  part,  . . 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


■257 


Would  God  sit  quiet,  let  us  think,  in  heaven, 

Nor  strike  me  dumb  with  thunder  ? Yet  I speak  : 

He  clears  me  therefore.  What,  ‘ seduced ’ ’s  your  word  ? 
Do  wolves  seduce  a wandering  fawn  in  France  ? 

Do  eagles,  who  have  pinched  a lamb  with  claws, 

Seduce  it  into  carrion  ? So  with  me. 

I was  not  ever,  as  you  say,  seduced, 

But  simply,  murdered.’ 

There  she  paused,  and  sighed, 
With  such  a sigh  as  drops  from  agony 
To  exhaustion,— sighing  while  she  let  the  babe 
Slide  down  upon  her  bosom  from  her  arms, 

And  all  her  face’s  light  fell  after  him 

Like  a torch  quenched  in  falling.  Down  she  sank. 

And  sate  upon  the  bedside  with  the  child. 

Bat  I,  convicted,  broken  utterly, 

With  woman’s  passion  clung  about  her  waist 
And  kissed  her  hair  and  eyes, — 4 1 have  been  wrong, 
Sweet  Marian  ’ . . (weeping  in  a tender  rage) 

4 Sweet  holy  Marian  ! And  now,  Marian,  now, 

I ’ll  use  your  oath  although  my  lips  are  hard, 

And  by  the  child,  my  Marian,  by  the  child, 

I swear  his  mother  shall  be  innocent 
Before  my  conscience,  as  in  the  open  Book 
Of  Him  who  reads  for  judgment.  Innocent, 

My  sister  ! let  the  night  be  ne’er  so  dark 
The  moon  is  surely  somewhere  in  the  sky ; 

So  surely  is  your  whiteness  to  be  found 
Through  all  dark  facts.  But  pardon,  pardon  me, 


258 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


And  smile  a little,  Marian, — for  the  child, 

If  not  for  me,  my  sister.’ 

The  poor  lip 

Just  motioned  for  the  smile  and  let  it  go  : 

And  then,  with  scarce  a stirring  of  the  mouth, 

As  if  a statue  spoke  that  could  not  breathe, 

But  spoke  on  calm  between  its  marble  lips, — 
c I ’m  glad,  I ’m  very  glad  you  clear  me  so. 

I should  be  sorry  that  you  set  me  down 
With  harlots,  or  with  even  a better  name 
Which  misbecomes  his  mother.  For  the  rest, 

I am  not  on  a level  with  your  love, 

Nor  ever  was,  you  know, — but  now  am  worse, 

Because  that  world  of  yours  has  dealt  with  me 
As  when  the  hard  sea  bites  and  chews  a stone 
And  changes  the  first  form  of  it.  1 ’ve  marked 
A shore  of  pebbles  bitten  to  one  shape 
From  all  the  various  life  of  madrepores  ; 

And  so,  that  little  stone,  called  Marian  Erie, 

Picked  up  and  dropped  by  you  and  another  friend, 

Was  ground  and  tortured  by  the  incessant  sea 
And  bruised  from  what  she  was, — changed ! death ’s  a 
change, 

And  she,  I said,  was  murdered ; Marian ’s  dead. 

What  can  you  do  with  people  when  they  are  dead, 

But,  if  you  are  pious,  sing  a hymn  and  go, 

Or,  if  you  are  tender,  heave  a sigh  and  go, 

But  go  by  all  means, — and  permit  the  grass 
To  keep  its  green  feud  up  ’twixt  them  and  you  ? 

Then  leave  me, — let  me  rest.  I ’m  dead,  I say, 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


259 


And  if,  to  save  the  child  from  death  as  well. 

The  mother  in  me  has  survived  the  rest, 

Why,  that ’s  God’s  miracle  you  must  not  tax, 

I ’m  not  less  dead  for  that : I ’m  nothing  more 
But  just  a mother.  Only  for  the  child 
I ’m  warm,  and  cold,  and  hungry,  and  afraid, 

And  smell  the  flowers  a little  and  see  the  sun. 

And  speak  still,  and  am  silent, — just  for  him  ! 

I pray  you  therefore  to  mistake  me  not 
And  treat  me  haply  as  I were  alive  ; 

For  though  you  ran  a pin  into  my  soul, 

I think  it  would  not  hurt  nor  trouble  me. 

Here ’s  proof,  dear  lady, — in  the  market-place 
But  now,  you  promised  me  to  say  a word 
About  . . a friend,  who  once,  long  years  ago, 

Took  God’s  place  toward  me,  when  He  leans  and  loves 
And  does  not  thunder,  . . whom  at  last  I left, 

As  all  of  us  leave  God.  You  thought  perhaps 
I seemed  to  care  for  hearing  of  that  friend  ? 

Now,  judge  me  ! we  have  sate  here  half  an  hour 
And  talked  together  of  the  child  and  me, 

And  I not  asked  as  much  as,  ‘ What ’s  the  thing 
4 You  had  to  tell  me  of  the  friend  . . the  friend  ?’ 

He ’s  sad,  I think  you  said, — he ’s  sick  perhaps  ? 

’T  is  nought  to  Marian  if  he ’s  sad  or  sick. 

Another  would  have  crawled  beside  your  foot 
And  prayed  your  words  out.  Why,  a beast,  a dog, 

A starved  cat,  if  he  had  fed  it  once  with  milk, 

Would  show  less  hardness.  But  I ’m  dead,  you  see, 
And  that  explains  it.’ 


260 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


Poor,  poor  thing,  she  spoke 
And  shook  her  head,  as  white  and  calm  as  frost 
On  days  too  cold  for  raining  any  more, 

But  still  with  such  a face,  so  much  alive, 

I could  not  choose  but  take  it  on  my  arm 
And  stroke  the  placid  patience  of  its  cheeks, — 

Then  told  my  story  out,  of  Romney  Leigh, 

How,  having  lost  her,  sought  her,  missed  her  still, 
He,  broken-hearted  for  himself  and  her, 

Had  drawn  the  curtains  of  the  world  awhile 

As  if  he  had  done  with  morning.  There  I stopped, 

For  when  she  gasped,  and  pressed  me  with  her  eyes, 

‘ And  now  . . how  is  it  with  him  ? tell  me  now/ 

I felt  the  shame  of  compensated  grief, 

And  chose  my  words  with  scruple — slowly  stepped 
Upon  the  slippery  stones  set  here  and  there 
Across  the  sliding  water.  4 Certainly, 

As  evening  empties  morning  into  night, 

Another  morning  takes  the  evening  up 
With  healthful,  providential  interchange ; 

And,  though  he  thought  still  of  her/ — 

4 Yes,  she  kne1 

She  understood  : she  had  supposed  indeed 
That,  as  one  stops  a hole  upon  a flute, 

At  which  a new  note  comes  and  shapes  the  tune. 
Excluding  her  would  bring  a worthier  in, 

And,  long  ere  this,  that  Lady  Waldemar 
He  loved  so  ’ . . 

4 Loved/  I started, — 4 loved  her  so  ' 


Now  tell  me  * . . 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


261 


‘ I will  tell  you/  she  replied : 

‘ Exit,  since  we  ’re  taking  oaths,  yon  ’ll  promise  first 
That  he  in  England,  he,  shall  never  learn 
In  what  a dreadful  trap  his  creature  here, 

Bound  whose  unworthy  neck  he  had  meant  to  tie 
The  honourable  ribbon  of  his  name, 

Fell  unaware  and  came  to  butchery  : 

Because, — I know  him, — as  he  takes  to  heart 
The  grief  of  every  stranger,  he ’s  not  like 
To  banish  mine  as  far  as  I should  choose 
In  wishing  him  most  happy.  Now  he  leaves 
To  think  of  me,  perverse,  who  went  my  way, 

Unkind,  and  left  him, — but  if  once  he  knew  . . 

Ah,  then,  the  sharp  nail  of  my  cruel  wrong 
Would  fasten  me  for  ever  in  his  sight, 

Like  some  poor  curious  bird,  through  each  spread  wing 
Nailed  high  up  over  a fierce  hunter’s  fire, 

To  spoil  the  dinner  of  all  tenderer  folk 

Come  in  by  chance.  Nay,  since  your  Marian  ’s  dead, 

You  shall  not  hang  her  up,  but  dig  a hole 

And  bury  her  in  silence  ! ring  no  bells.’ 

I answered  gaily,  though  my  whole  voice  wept, 

4 We  ’ll  ring  the  joy-bells,  not  the  funeral-bells, 

Because  we  have  her  back,  dead  or  alive.’ 

She  never  answered  that,  but  shook  her  head ; 

Then  low  and  calm,  as  one  who,  safe  in  heaven. 

Shall  tell  a story  of  his  lower  life, 

Unmoved  by  shame  or  anger, — so  she  spoke. 


262 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


She  told  me  she  had  loved  upon  her  knees, 

As  others  pray,  more  perfectly  absorbed 
In  the  act  and  inspiration.  She  felt  his 
For  just  his  uses,  not  her  own  at  all, 

His  stool,  to  sit  on  or  put  up  his  foot, 

His  cup,  to  fill  with  wine  or  vinegar, 

Whichever  drink  might  please  him  at  the  chance 
For  that  should  please  her  always  : let  him  write 
His  name  upon  her  . . it  seemed  natural ; 

It  was  most  precious,  standing  on  his  shelf, 

To  wait  until  he  chose  to  lift  his  hand. 

Well,  well, — I saw  her  then,  and  must  have  seen 
How  bright  her  life  went  floating  on  her  love, 
Like  wicks  the  housewives  send  afloat  on  oil 
Which  feeds  them  to  a flame  that  lasts  the  night. 

To  do  good  seemed  so  much  his  business, 

That,  having  done  it,  she  was  fain  to  think, 

Must  fill  up  his  capacity  for  joy. 

At  first  she  never  mooted  with  herself 
If  he  was  happy,  since  he  made  her  so, 

Or  if  he  loved  her,  being  so  much  beloved. 

Who  thinks  of  asking  if  the  sun  is  light, 
Observing  that  it  lightens  ? who ’s  so  bold, 

To  question  God  of  His  felicity  ? 

Still  less.  And  thus  she  took  for  granted  first 
What  first  of  all  she  should  have  put  to  proof, 
And  sinned  against  him  so,  but  only  so. 

‘ What  could  you  hope,’  she  said,  ‘ of  such  as  she 
You  take  a kid  you  like,  and  turn  it  out 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


263 


In  some  fair  garden  : though,  the  creature’s  fond 

And  gentle,  it  will  leap  upon  the  beds 

And  break  your  tulips,  bite  your  tender  trees  ; 

The  wonder  would  be  if  such  innocence 
Spoiled  less  : a garden  is  no  place  for  kids.’ 

And,  by  degrees,  when  he  who  had  chosen  her 
Brought  in  his  courteous  and  benignant  friends 
To  spend  their  goodness  on  her,  which  she  took 
So  very  gladly,  as  a part  of  his, — 

By  slow  degrees  it  broke  on  her  slow  sense 
That  she  too  in  that  Eden  of  delight 
Was  out  of  place,  and,  like  the  silly  kid, 

Still  did  most  mischief  where  she  meant  most  love. 

A thought  enough  to  make  a woman  mad, 

(No  beast  in  this  but  she  may  well  go  mad) 

That  saying  ‘ I am  thine  to  love  and  use’ 

May  blow  the  plague  in  her  protesting  breath 
To  the  very  man  for  whom  she  claims  to  die, — 

That,  clinging  round  his  neck,  she  pulls  him  down 
And  drowns  him, — and  that,  lavishing  her  soul, 

She  hales  perdition  on  him.  ‘ So,  being  mad,’ 

Said  Marian  . . 

‘ Ah — who  stirred  such  thoughts,  you  ask  ? 
Whose  fault  it  was,  that  she  should  have  such  thoughts  ? 
N one’s  fault,  none’s  fault.  The  light  comes,  and  we  see  : 
But  if  it  were  not  truly  for  our  eyes, 

There  would  be  nothing  seen,  for  all  the  light. 

And  so  with  Marian  : if  she  saw  at  last, 

The  sense  was  in  her, — Lady  Waldemar 


264 


AUROKA  LEIGH. 


Had  spoken  all  in  vain  else.’ 

‘ O my  heart, 

O prophet  in  my  heart,’  I cried  aloud, 

‘ Then  Lady  Waldemar  spoke  !’ 

‘ Did  she  speak,’ 

Mused  Marian  softly,  ‘ or  did  she  only  sign  ? 

Or  did  she  put  a word  into  her  face 

And  look,  and  so  impress  you  with  the  word  ? 

Or  leave  it  in  the  foldings  of  her  gown, 

Like  rosemary  smells  a movement  will  shake  out 
When  no  one ’s  conscious  ? who  shall  say,  or  guess 
One  thing  alone  was  certain — from  the  day 
The  gracious  lady  paid  a visit  first. 

She,  Marian,  saw  things  different, — felt  distrust 
Of  all  that  sheltering  roof  of  circumstance 
Her  hopes  were  building  into  with  clay  nests : 

Her  heart  was  restless,  pacing  up  and  down 
And  fluttering,  like  dumb  creatures  before  storms, 
Not  knowing  wherefore  she  was  ill  at  ease.’ 

‘ And  still  the  lady  came,’  said  Marian  Erie, 

‘ Much  oftener  than  he  knew  it,  Mister  Leigh. 

She  bade  me  never  tell  him  she  had  come, 

She  liked  to  love  me  better  than  he  knew, 

So  very  kind  was  Lady  Waldemar  : 

And  every  time  she  brought  with  her  more  light, 
And  every  light  made  sorrow  clearer  . . Well, 

Ah,  well ! we  cannot  give  her  blame  for  that ; 

’T  would  be  the  same  thing  if  an  angel  came, 

Whose  right  should  prove  our  wrong.  And  every  ti 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


265 


The  lady  came,  she  looked  more  beautiful 
And  spoke  more  like  a flute  among  green  trees, 
Until  at  last,  as  one,  whose  heart  being  sad 
On  hearing  lovely  music,  suddenly 
Dissolves  in  weeping,  I brake  out  in  tears 
Before  her,  asked  her  counsel, — ‘ Had  I erred 
6 In  being  too  happy  ? would  she  set  me  straight  ? 

4 For  she,  being  wise  and  good  and  born  above 
‘ The  flats  I had  never  climbed  from,  could  perceive 
4 If  such  as  I,  might  grow  upon  the  hills  ; 

‘ And  whether  such  poor  herb  sufficed  to  grow, 

4 For  Romney  Leigh  to  break  his  fast  upon ’t, — 

4 Or  would  he  pine  on  such,  or  haply  starve  ?’ 

She  wrapt  m6  in  her  generous  arms  at  once, 

And  let  me  dream  a moment  how  it  feels 
To  have  a real  mother,  like  some  girls  : 

But  when  I looked,  her  face  was  younger  . . ay, 
Youth ’s  too  bright  not  to  be  a little  hard, 

And  beauty  keeps  itself  still  uppermost, 

That  ’s  true  ! — Though  Lady  Waldemar  was  kind 
She  hurt  me,  hurt,  as  if  the  morning-sun 
Should  smite  us  on  the  eyelids  when  we  sleep, 

And  wake  us  up  with  headache.  Ay,  and  soon 
Was  light  enough  to  make  my  heart  ache  too  : 

She  told  me  truths  I asked  for, — ’twas  my  fault, — 

‘ That  Romney  could  not  love  me,  if  he  would. 

‘ As  men  call  loving : there  are  bloods  that  flow 
4 Together  like  some  rivers  and  not  mix, 

4 Through  contraries  of  nature.  He  indeed 
f Was  set  to  wed  me,  to  espouse  my  class, 


266 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


4 Act  out  a rash  opinion. — and,  once  wed, 

4 So  just  a man  and  gentle  could  not  choose 
‘ But  make  my  life  as  smooth  as  marriage-ring, 

4 Bespeak  me  mildly,  keep  me  a cheerful  house, 

4 With  servants,  brooches,  all  the  flowers  I liked, 

4 And  pretty  dresses,  silk  the  whole  year  round  ’ . . 
At  which  I stopped  her, — 4 This  for  me.  And  now 
4 For  him’ — She  hesitated, — truth  grew  hard ; 

She  owned,  4 ’T  was  plain  a man  like  Romney  Leigh 
4 Required  a wife  more  level  to  himself. 

4 If  day  by  day  he  had  to  bend  his  height 
4 To  pick  up  sympathies,  opinions,  thoughts, 

4 And  interchange  the  common  talk  of  life 
4 Which  helps  a man  to  live  as  well  as  talk, 

4 His  days  were  heavily  taxed.  Who  buys  a staff 
4 To  fit  the  hand,  that  reaches  but  the  knee  ? 

4 He ’d  feel  it  bitter  to  be  forced  to  miss 
4 The  perfect  joy  of  married  suited  pairs, 

4 Who,  bursting  through  the  separating  hedge 
4 Of  personal  dues  with  that  sweet  eglantine 
4 Of  equal  love,  keep  saying,  4 So  we  think, 

4 4 It  strikes  us, — that ’s  our  fancy.’  ’ — When  I asked 
If  earnest  will,  devoted  love,  employed 
In  youth  like  mine,  would  fail  to  raise  me  up 
As  two  strong  arms  will  always  raise  a child 
To  a fruit  hung  overhead,  she  sighed  and  sighed  . . 

4 That  could  not  be,’  she  feared.  4 You  take  a pink, 

4 You  dig  about  its  roots  and  water  it 
4 And  so  improve  it  to  a garden-pink, 

4 But  will  not  change  it  to  a heliotrope, 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


267 


* The  kind  remains.  And  then,  the  harder  truth — 

4 This  Romney  Leigh,  so  rash  to  leap  a pale, 

4 So  hold  for  conscience,  quick  for  martyrdom, 

4 Would  suffer  steadily  and  never  flinch, 

4 But  suffer  surely  and  keenly,  when  his  class 
4 Turned  shoulder  on  him  for  a shameful  match, 

4 And  set  him  up  as  nine-pin  in  their  talk 
4 To  howl  him  down  with  jestings.’ — There,  she  paused  ; 
And  when  I used  the  pause  in  doubting  that 
We  wronged  him  after  all  in  what  we  feared — ■ 

4 Suppose  such  things  could  never  touch  him  more 
4 In  his  high  conscience  (if  the  things  should  he,) 

4 Than,  when  the  queen  sits  in  an  upper  room, 

4 The  horses  in  the  street  can  spatter  her !’ — 

A moment,  hope  came, — hut  the  lady  closed 
That  door  and  nicked  the  lock  and  shut  it  out, 
Observing  wisely  that,  4 the  tender  heart 
4 Which  made  him  over-soft  to  a lower  class, 

4 Would  scarcely  fail  to  make  him  sensitive 
4 To  a higher, — how  they  thought  and  what  they  felt.’ 

4 Alas,  alas/  said  Marian,  rocking  slow 
The  pretty  baby  who  was  near  asleep, 

The  eyelids  creeping  over  the  blue  balls, — 

4 She  made  it  clear,  too  clear — I saw  the  whole  ! 

And  yet  who  knows  if  I had  seen  my  way 
Straight  out  of  it  by  looking,  though ’t  was  clear, 

Unless  the  generous  lady,  ’ware  of  this, 

Had  set  her  own  house  all  a-fire  for  me 
To  light  me  forwards  ? Leaning  on  my  face 


268 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


Her  heavy  agate  eyes  which  crushed  my  will, 

She  told  me  tenderly,  (as  when  men  come 
To  a bedside  to  tell  people  they  must  die) 

4 She  knew  of  knowledge, — ay,  of  knowledge  knew, 

4 That  Romney  Leigh  had  loved  her  formerly. 

4 And  she  loved  him , she  might  say,  now  the  chance 
4 Was  past, — but  that,  of  course,  he  never  guessed, — • 
4 For  something  came  between  them,  something  thin 
4 As  a cobweb,  catching  every  fly  of  doubt 
4 To  hold  it  buzzing  at  the  window-pane 
4 And  help  to  dim  the  daylight.  Ah,  man’s  pride 
4 Or  woman’s — which  is  greatest  ? most  averse 
4 To  brushing  cobwebs?  Well,  but  she  and  he 
4 Remained  fast  friends ; it  seemed  not  more  than  so, 
4 Because  he  had  bound  his  hands  and  could  not  stir. 

4 An  honourable  man,  if  somewhat  rash  ; 

4 And  she,  not  even  for  Romney,  would  she  spill 
4 A blot  . . as  little  even  as  a tear  . . 

4 Upon  his  marriage-contract, — not  to  gain 
4 A better  joy  for  two  than  came  by  that : 

4 For,  though  I stood  between  her  heart  and  heaven, 

4 She  loved  me  wholly.’  ’ 

Did  I laugh  or  curse  ? 

I think  I sate  there  silent,  hearing  all, 

Ay,  hearing  double, — Marian’s  tale,  at  once, 

And  Romney’s  marriage-vow,  4 V ll  keep  to  thee,’ 
Which  means  that  woman-serpent.  Is  it  time 
For  church  now  ? 

4 Lady  Waldemar  spoke  more,’ 
Continued  Marian,  4 but,  as  when  a soul 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


269 


Will  pass  out  through  the  sweetness  of  a song 
Beyond  it,  voyaging  the  uphill  road, 

Even  so  mine  wandered  from  the  things  I heard 
To  those  I suffered.  It  was  afterward 
I shaped  the  resolution  to  the  act. 

For  many  hours  we  talked.  What  need  to  talk  ? 
The  fate  was  clear  and  close ; it  touched  my  eyes ; 
But  still  the  generous  lady  tried  to  keep 
The  case  afloat,  and  would  not  let  it  go, 

And  argued,  struggled  upon  Marian’s  side, 

Which  was  not  Bomney’s ! though  she  little  knew 
What  ugly  monster  would  take  up  the  end, — 
What  griping  death  within  the  drowning  death 
Was  ready  to  complete  my  sum  of  death.’ 

I thought, — Perhaps  he ’s  sliding  now  the  ring 
Upon  that  woman’s  finger  . . 

She  went  on : 

4 The  lady,  failing  to  prevail  her  way, 

Up-gathered  my  torn  wishes  from  the  ground 
And  pieced  them  with  her  strong  benevolence  : 
And,  as  I thought  I could  breathe  freer  air 
Away  from  England,  going  without  pause 
Without  farewell,  just  breaking  with  a jerk 
The  blossomed  offshoot  from  my  thorny  life, — - 
She  promised  kindly  to  provide  the  means, 

With  instant  passage  to  the  colonies 
And  full  protection, — ‘would  commit  me  straight 
‘ To  one  who  once  had  been  her  waiting-maid 
‘ And  had  the  customs  of  the  world,  intent 


270 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


4 On  changing  England  for  Australia 
‘ Herself,  to  carry  out  her  fortune  so.’ 

For  which  I thanked  the  Lady  Waldemar, 

As  men  upon  their  death-beds  thank  last  friends 
Who  lay  the  pillow  straight : it  is  not  much, 

And  yet ’t  is  all  of  which  they  are  capable, 

This  lying  smoothly  in  a bed  to  die. 

And  so,  ’t  was  fixed ; — and  so,  from  day  to  day, 

The  woman  named  came  in  to  visit  me.’ 

Just  then  the  girl  stopped  speaking, — sate  erect, 

And  stared  at  me  as  if  I had  been  a ghost, 

(Perhaps  I looked  as  white  as  any  ghost) 

With  large-eyed  horror.  4 Does  God  make,’  she  said, 
4 All  sorts  of  creatures  really,  do  you  think  ? 

Or  is  it  that  the  Devil  slavers  them 

So  excellently,  that  we  come  to  doubt 

Who ’s  stronger,  He  who  makes,  or  he  who  mars  ? 

I never  liked  the  woman’s  face  or  voice 
Or  vrays  : it  made  me  blush  to  look  at  her  ; 

It  made  me  tremble  if  she  touched  my  hand ; 

And  when  she  spoke  a fondling  word  I shrank 
As  if  one  hated  me  who  had  power  to  hurt  ; 

And,  every  time  she  came,  my  veins  ran  cold 
As  somebody  were  walking  on  my  grave. 

At  last  I spoke  to  Lady  Waldemar : 

4 Could  such  an  one  be  good  to  trust  ?’  I asked. 
Whereat  the  lady  stroked  my  cheek  and  laughed 
Her  silver-laugh,  (one  must  be  born  to  laugh, 

To  put  such  music  in  it) — 4 Foolish  girl, 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


271 


‘ Your  scattered  wits  are  gathering  wool  beyond 
‘ The  sheep-walk  reaches  ! — leave  the  thing  to  me.’ 
And  therefore,  half  in  trust,  and  half  in  scorn 
That  I had  heart  still  for  another  fear 
In  such  a safe  despair,  I left  the  thing. 

4 The  rest  is  short.  I was  obedient : 

1 wrote  my  letter  which  delivered  him 
From  Marian  to  his  own  prosperities, 

And  followed  that  bad  guide.  The  lady  ? — hush, 

I never  blame  the  lady.  Ladies  who 
Sit  high,  however  willing  to  look  down, 

Will  scarce  see  lower  than  their  dainty  feet ; 

And  Lady  Waldemar  saw  less  than  I, 

With  what  a Devil’s  daughter  I went  forth 
Along  the  swine’s  road,  down  the  precipice, 

In  such  a curl  of  hell-foam  caught  and  choked, 

No  shriek  of  soul  in  anguish  could  pierce  through 
To  fetch  some  help.  They  say  there ’s  help  in  heaven 
For  all  such  cries.  But  if  one  cries  from  hell  . . . 
What  then  ? — the  heavens  are  deaf  upon  that  side. 

4 A woman  . . hear  me,  let  me  make  it  plain,  . . 

A woman  . . not  a monster  . . both  her  breasts 
Made  right  to  suckle  babes  . . she  took  me  off 
A woman  also,  young  and  ignorant 
And  heavy  with  my  grief,  my  two  poor  eyes 
Near  washed  away  with  weeping,  till  the  trees, 

The  blessed  unaccustomed  trees  and  fields 
Kan  either  side  the  train  like  stranger  dogs 


272 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


Unworthy  of  any  notice, — took  me  off 
So  dnll,  so  blind,  so  only  half  alive, 

Not  seeing  by  what  road,  nor  by  what  ship, 

Nor  toward  what  place,  nor  to  what  end  of  all. 
Men  carry  a corpse  thus, — past  the  doorway,  past 
The  garden-gate,  the  children’s  playground,  up 
The  green  lane, — then  they  leave  it  in  the  pit. 

To  sleep  and  find  corruption,  cheek  to  cheek 
With  him  who  stinks  since  Friday. 

‘ But  suppose ; 

To  go  down  with  one’s  soul  into  the  grave, 

To  go  down  half  dead,  half  alive,  I say, 

And  wake  up  with  corruption,  . . cheek  to  cheek 
With  him  who  stinks  since  Friday ! There  it  is, 
And  that ’s  the  horror  of ’t,  Miss  Leigh. 

‘ You  feel 

You  understand  ? — no,  do  not  look  at  me, 

But  understand.  The  blank,  blind,  weary  way, 
Which  led,  where’er  it  led,  away  at  least ; 

The  shifted  ship,  to  Sydney  or  to  France, 

Still  bound,  wherever  else,  to  another  land ; 

The  swooning  sickness  on  the  dismal  sea, 

The  foreign  shore,  the  shameful  house,  the  night, 
The  feeble  blood,  the  heavy-headed  grief,  . . . 

No  need  to  bring  their  damnable  drugged  cup, 

And  yet  they  brought  it.  Hell ’s  so  prodigal 
Of  devil’s  gifts,  hunts  liberally  in  packs, 

Will  kill  no  poor  small  creature  of  the  wilds 
But  fifty  red  wide  throats  must  smoke  at  it, 

As  his  at  me  . . when  waking  up  at  last  . . 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


273 


I told  you  that  I waked  up  in  the  grave. 

‘ Enough  so ! — it  is  plain  enough  so.  True, 

We  wretches  cannot  tell  out  all  our  wrong 
Without  offence  to  decent  happy  folk. 

I know  that  we  must  scrupulously  hint 
With  half-words,  delicate  reserves,  the  thing 
Which  no  one  scrupled  we  should  feel  in  full. 

Let  pass  the  rest,  then ; only  leave  my  oath 
Upon  this  sleeping  child, — man’s  violence, 

Not  man’s  seduction,  made  me  what  I am, 

As  lost  as  . . I told  him  I should  be  lost. 

When  mothers  fail  us,  can  we  help  ourselves  ? 

That ’s  fatal ! — And  you  call  it  being  lost, 

That  down  came  next  day’s  noon  and  caught  me  there 
Half  gibbering  and  half  raving  on  the  floor, 

And  wondering  what  had  happened  up  in  heaven, 
That  suns  should  dare  to  shine  when  God  himself 
Was  certainly  abolished. 

‘ I was  mad, 

How  many  weeks,  I know  not, — many  weeks. 

I think  they  let  me  go  when  I was  mad, 

They  feared  my  eyes  and  loosed  me,  as  boys  might 
A mad  dog  which  they  had  tortured.  Up  and  down 
I went,  by  road  and  village,  over  tracts 
Of  open  foreign  country,  large  and  strange, 

Crossed  everywhere  by  long  thin  poplar-lines 
Like  fingers  of  some  ghastly  skeleton  Hand 
Through  sunlight  and  through  moonlight  evermore 
Pushed  out  from  hell  itself  to  pluck  me  back, 

T 


274 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


And  resolute  to  get  me,  slow  and  sure  ; 

While  every  roadside  Christ  upon  his  cross 
Hung  reddening  through  his  gory  wounds  at  me, 

And  shook  his  nails  in  anger,  and  came  down 
To  follow  a mile  after,  wading  up 

The  low  vines  and  green  wheat,  crying  4 Take  the  gill ! 
4 She ’s  none  of  mine  from  henceforth/  Then  I knew 
(But  this  is  somewhat  dimmer  than  the  rest) 

The  charitable  peasants  gave  me  bread 

And  leave  to  sleep  in  straw  : and  twice  they  tied, 

At  parting,  Mary’s  image  round  my  neck — 

How  heavy  it  seemed ! as  heavy  as  a stone  ; 

A woman  has  been  strangled  with  less  weight : 

I threw  it  in  a ditch  to  keep  it  clean 

And  ease  my  breath  a little,  when  none  looked ; 

I did  not  need  such  safeguards  : — brutal  men 
Stopped  short,  Miss  Leigh,  in  insult,  when  they  had  seen 
My  face, — I must  have  had  an  awful  look. 

And  so  I lived : the  weeks  passed  on, — I lived. 

’T  was  living  my  old  tramp-life  o’er  again, 

But,  this  time,  in  a dream,  and  hunted  round 
By  some  prodigious  Dream-fear  at  my  back, 

Which  ended  yet : my  brain  cleared  presently ; 

And  there  I sate,  one  evening,  by  the  road, 

I,  Marian  Erie,  myself,  alone,  undone, 

Facing  a sunset  low  upon  the  flats 
As  if  it  were  the  finish  of  all  time, 

The  great  red  stone  upon  my  sepulchre, 

Which  angels  were  too  weak  to  roll  away. 


( 275  ) 


SEVENTH  BOOK. 


‘ The  woman’s  motive  ? shall  we  daub  ourselves 
With  finding  roots  for  nettles  ? ’t  is  soft  clay 
And  easily  explored.  She  had  the  means 
The  monies,  by  the  lady’s  liberal  grace, 

In  trust  for  that  Australian  scheme  and  me, 

Which  so,  that  she  might  clutch  with  both  her  hands 
And  chink  to  her  naughty  uses  undisturbed, 

She  served  me  (after  all  it  was  not  strange, 

’T  was  only  wdiat  my  mother  would  have  done) 

A motherly,  right  damnable  good  turn. 

‘ Well,  after.  There  are  nettles  everywhere, 

But  smooth  green  grasses  are  more  common  still ; 
The  blue  of  heaven  is  larger  than  the  cloud ; 

A miller’s  wife  at  Clichy  took  me  in 
And  spent  her  pity  on  me, — made  me  calm 
And  merely  very  reasonably  sad. 

She  found  me  a servant’s  place  in  Paris  where 
I tried  to  take  the  cast-off  life  again, 

And  stood  as  quiet  as  a beaten  ass 


276 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


Who,  having  fallen  through  overloads,  stands  up 
To  let  them  charge  him  with  another  pack. 

4 A few  months,  so.  My  mistress,  young  and  light, 
Was  easy  with  me,  less  for  kindness  than 
Because  she  led,  herself,  an  easy  time 
Betwixt  her  lover  and  her  looking-glass, 

Scarce  knowing  which  way  she  was  praised  the  most. 
She  felt  so  pretty  and  so  pleased  all  day 
She  could  not  take  the  trouble  to  be  cross, 

But  sometimes,  as  I stooped  to  tie  her  shoe, 

Would  tap  me  softly  with  her  slender  foot 
Still  restless  with  the  last  night’s  dancing  in  ’t, 

And  say,  4 Fie,  pale-face ! are  you  English  girls 
‘ All  grave  and  silent  ? mass-book  still,  and  Lent  ? 

4 And  first-communion  pallor  on  your  cheeks, 

4 Worn  past  the  time  for ’t?  little  fool,  be  gay !’ 

At  which  she  vanished  like  a fairy,  through 
A gap  of  silver  laughter. 

‘ Came  an  hour 

When  all  went  otherwise.  She  did  not  speak, 

But  clenched  her  brows,  and  clipped  me  with  her  eyes 
As  if  a viper  with  a pair  of  tongs, 

Too  far  for  any  touch,  yet  near  enough 
To  view  the  writhing  creature, — then  at  last, 

‘Stand  still  there,  in  the  holy  Virgin’s  name, 

4 Thou  Marian  ; thou  ’rt  no  reputable  girl, 

■ Although  sufficient  dull  for  twenty  saints ! 

4 1 think  thou  mock’st  me  and  my  house,’  she  said ; 

4 Confess  thou  ’It  be  a mother  in  a month, 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


277 


4 Thou  mask  of  saintship.’ 

4 Could  I answer  her  ? 

The  light  broke  in  so.  It  meant  that  then,  that  ? 

I had  not  thought  of  that,  in  all  my  thoughts, 

Through  all  the  cold,  numb  aching  of  my  brow, 

Through  all  the  heaving  of  impatient  life 

Which  threw  me  on  death  at  intervals, — through  all 

The  upbreak  of  the  fountains  of  my  heart 

The  rains  had  swelled  too  large  : it  could  mean  that  ? 

Did  God  make  mothers  out  of  victims,  then, 

And  set  such  pure  amens  to  hideous  deeds  ? 

Why  not  ? he  overblows  an  ugly  grave 
With  violets  which  blossom  in  the  spring. 

And  I could  be  a mother  in  a month  ? 

I hope  it  was  not  wicked  to  be  glad. 

I lifted  up  my  voice  and  wept,  and  laughed, 

To  heaven,  not  her,  until  it  tore  my  throat. 

4 Confess,  confess !’ — what  was  there  to  confess, 
Except  man’s  cruelty,  except  my  wrong  ? 

Except  this  anguish,  or  this  ecstasy  ? 

This  shame  or  glory  ? The  light  woman  there 
Was  small  to  take  it  in : an  acorn-cup 
Would  take  the  sea  in  sooner. 

4 4 Good,’  she  cried ; 

4 Unmarried  and  a mother,  and  she  laughs  ! 

4 These  unchaste  girls  are  always  impudent. 

4 Get  out,  intriguer ! leave  my  house  and  trot. 

4 1 wonder  you  should  look  me  in  the  face, 

4 With  such  a filthy  secret.’ 


4 Then  I rolled 


278 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


My  scanty  bundle  np  and  went  my  way, 

Washed  white  with  weeping,  shuddering  head  and  foot 
With  blind  hysteric  passion,  staggering  forth 
Beyond  those  doors.  ’T  was  natural  of  course 
She  should  not  ask  me  where  I meant  to  sleep  ; 

I might  sleep  well  beneath  the  heavy  Seine, 

Like  others  of  my  sort ; the  bed  was  laid 
For  us.  But  any  woman,  womanly, 

Had  thought  of  him  who  should  be  in  a month, 

The  sinless  babe  that  should  be  in  a month, 

And  if  by  chance  he  might  be  warmer  housed 
Than  underneath  such  dreary  dripping  eaves.’ 

I broke  on  Marian  there.  ‘ Yet  she  herself, 

A wife,  I think,  had  scandals  of  her  own, 

A lover  not  her  husband.’ 

‘ Ay,’  she  said, 

‘ But  gold  and  meal  are  measured  otherwise  ; 

I learnt  so  much  at  school,’  said  Marian  Erie. 

‘ 0 crooked  world,’  I cried,  ‘ ridiculous 
If  not  so  lamentable  ! ’T  is  the  way 
With  these  light  women  of  a thrifty  vice, 

My  Marian, — always  hard  upon  the  rent 
In  any  sister’s  virtue  ! while  they  keep 
Their  own  so  darned  and  patched  with  perfidy, 

That,  though  a rag  itself,  it  looks  as  well 
Across  a street,  in  balcony  or  coach, 

As  any  perfect  stuff  might.  For  my  part, 

I’d  rather  take  the  wind-side  of  the  stews 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


279 


Than  touch  such  women  with  my  finger-end ! 
They  top  the  poor  street-walker  by  their  lie 
And  look  the  better  for  being  so  much  worse : 
The  devil 5s  most  devilish  when  respectable. 

But  you,  dear,  and  your  story.5 

4 All  the  rest 

Is  here,5  she  said,  and  signed  upon  the  child. 

4 1 found  a mistress-sempstress  who  was  kind 
And  let  me  sew  in  peace  among  her  girls. 

And  what  was  better  than  to  draw  the  threads 
All  day  and  half  the  night  for  him  and  him  ? 

And  so  I lived  for  him,  and  so  he  lives, 

And  so  I know,  by  this  time,  God  lives  too.5 

She  smiled  beyond  the  sun  and  ended  so. 

And  all  my  soul  rose  up  to  take  her  part 
Against  the  world’s  successes,  virtues,  fames. 

4 Come  with  me,  sweetest  sister,5  I returned, 

4 And  sit  within  my  house  and  do  me  good 
From  henceforth,  thou  and  thine  ! ye  are  my  own 
From  henceforth.  I am  lonely  in  the  world, 

And  thou  art  lonely,  and  the  child  is  half 
An  orphan.  Come, — and  henceforth  thou  and  I 
Being  still  together  will  not  miss  a friend, 

Nor  he  a father,  since  two  mothers  shall 
Make  that  up  to  him.  I am  journeying  south. 
And  in  my  Tuscan  home  I’ll  find  a niche 
And  set  thee  there,  my  saint,  the  child  and  thee, 
And  burn  the  lights  of  love  before  thy  face, 

And  ever  at  thy  sweet  look  cross  myself 


280 


AUKOKA  LEIGH. 


From  mixing  with  the  world’s  prosperities ; 

That  so,  in  gravity  and  holy  calm, 

We  two  may  live  on  toward  the  truer  life.’ 

She  looked  me  in  the  face  and  answered  not, 

Nor  signed  she  was  unworthy,  nor  gave  thanks, 
But  took  the  sleeping  child  and  held  it  out 
To  meet  my  kiss,  as  if  requiting  me 
And  trusting  me  at  once.  And  thus,  at  once, 

I carried  him  and  her  to  where  I live ; 

She ’s  there  now,  in  the  little  room,  asleep, 

I hear  the  soft  child-breathing  through  the  door. 
And  all  three  of  us,  at  to-morrow’s  break. 

Pass  onward,  homeward,  to  our  Italy. 

Oh,  Romney  Leigh,  I have  your  debts  to  pay. 

And  I ’ll  be  just  and  pay  them. 

But  yourself  l 

To  pay  your  debts  is  scarcely  difficult, 

To  buy  your  life  is  nearly  impossible, 

Being  sold  away  to  Lamia.  My  head  aches, 

I cannot  see  my  road  along  this  dark ; 

Nor  can  I creep  and  grope,  as  fits  the  dark, 

For  these  foot-catching  robes  of  womanhood: 

A man  might  walk  a little  . . but  I !— -He  loves 
The  Lamia-woman, — and  I,  write  to  him 
What  stops  his  marriage,  and  destroys  his  peace,—** 
Or  what  perhaps  shall  simply  trouble  him, 

Until  she  only  need  to  touch  his  sleeve 
With  just  a finger’s  tremulous  white  flame. 

Saying,  ‘ Ah, — Aurora  Leigh ! a pretty  tale, 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


281 


4 A very  pretty  poet ! I can  guess 
4 The  motive  ’ — then,  to  catch  his  eyes  in  hers 
And  vow  she  does  not  wonder, — and  they  two 
To  break  in  laughter  as  the  sea  along 
A melancholy  coast,  and  float  up  higher, 

In  such  a laugh,  their  fatal  weeds  of  love  ! 

Ay,  fatal,  ay.  And  who  shall  answer  me 
Fate  has  not  hurried  tides, — and  if  to-night 
My  letter  would  not  be  a night  too  late, 

An  arrow  shot  into  a man  that ’s  dead, 

To  prove  a vain  intention?  Would  I show 
The  new  wife  vile,  to  make  the  husband  mad  ? 

No,  Lamia ! shut  the  shutters,  bar  the  doors 
From  every  glimmer  on  thy  serpent-skin ! 

I will  not  let  thy  hideous  secret  out 
To  agonise  the  man  I love — I mean 
The  friend  I love  . . as  friends  love. 

It  is  strange, 

To-day  while  Marian  told  her  story  like 
To  absorb  most  listeners,  how  I listened  chief 
To  a voice  not  hers,  nor  yet  that  enemy’s, 

Nor  God’s  in  wrath,  . . but  one  that  mixed  with  mine 
Long  years  ago  among  the  garden-trees, 

And  said  to  me , to  me  too,  4 Be  my  wife, 

Aurora.’  It  is  strange  with  what  a swell 
Of  yearning  passion,  as  a snow  of  ghosts 
Might  beat  against  the  impervious  door  of  heaven, 

I thought,  4 Now,  if  I had  been  a woman,  such 
As  God  made  women,  to  save  men  by  love, — 

By  just  my  love  I might  have  saved  this  man, 


282 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


And  made  a nobler  poem  for  the  world 
Than  all  I have  failed  in.’  But  I failed  besides 
In  this  ; and  now  he ’s  lost ! through  me  alone  ! 

And,  by  my  only  fault,  his  empty  house 
Sucks  in,  at  this  same  hour,  a wind  from  hell 
To  keep  his  hearth  cold,  make  his  casements  creak 
For  ever  to  the  tune  of  plague  and  sin — 

0 Romney,  0 my  Romney,  0 my  friend, 

My  cousin  and  friend  ! my  helper,  when  1 would, 

My  love,  that  might  be  ! mine  ! 

Why,  how  one  weeps 

When  one ’s  too  weary  ! Were  a witness  by, 

He ’d  say  some  folly  . . that  I loved  the  man, 

Who  knows  ? . . and  make  me  laugh  again  for  scorn. 
At  strongest,  women  are  as  weak  in  flesh, 

As  men,  at  weakest,  vilest,  are  in  soul : 

So,  hard  for  women  to  keep  pace  with  men ! 

As  well  give  up  at  once,  sit  down  at  once, 

And  weep  as  I do.  Tears,  tears ! why  we  weep  ? 

’T  is  worth  inquiry  ? — that  we  ’ve  shamed  a life, 

Or  lost  a love,  or  missed  a world,  perhaps  ? 

By  no  means.  Simply,  that  we ’ve  walked  too  far, 

Or  talked  too  much,  or  felt  the  wind  i’  the  east, — 

And  so  we  weep,  as  if  both  body  and  soul 
Broke  up  in  water — this  way. 

Poor  mixed  rags 

Forsooth  we  ’re  made  of,  like  those  other  dolls 
That  lean  with  pretty  faces  into  fairs. 

It  seems  as  if  I had  a man  in  me, 

Despising  such  a woman. 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


283 


Yet  indeed, 

To  see  a wrong  or  suffering  moves  us  all 
To  undo  it  though  we  should  undo  ourselves, 

Ay,  all  the  more,  that  we  undo  ourselves ; 

That ’s  womanly,  past  doubt,  and  not  ill-moved. 

A natural  movement  therefore,  on  my  part, 

To  fill  the  chair  up  of  my  cousin’s  wife, 

And  save  him  from  a devil’s  company ! 

We  ’re  all  so, — made  so — ’t  is  our  woman’s  trade 
To  suffer  torment  for  another’s  ease. 

The  world’s  male  chivalry  has  perished  out, 

But  women  are  knights-errant  to  the  last ; 

And  if  Cervantes  had  been  Shakespeare  too, 

He  had  made  his  Don  a Donna. 

So  it  clears, 

And  so  we  rain  our  skies  blue. 

Put  away 

This  weakness.  If,  as  I have  just  now  said, 

A man ’s  within  me, — let  him  act  himself, 

Ignoring  the  poor  conscious  trouble  of  blood 
That ’s  called  the  woman  merely.  I will  write 
Plain  words  to  England, — if  too  late,  too  late, 

If  ill-accounted,  then  accounted  ill ; 

We  ’ll  trust  the  heavens  with  something. 

‘ Dear  Lord  Howe, 

You  ’ll  find  a story  on  another  leaf 
Of  Marian  Erie, — what  noble  friend  of  yours 
She  trusted  once,  through  what  flagitious  means, 

To  what  disastrous  ends ; — the  story ’s  true. 

I found  her  wandering  on  the  Paris  quays, 


284 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


A babe  upon  her  breast, — unnatural 
Unseasonable  outcast  on  such  snow 
Unthawed  to  this  time.  I will  tax  in  this 
Your  friendship,  friend,  if  that  convicted  She 
Be  not  his  wife  yet,  to  denounce  the  facts 
To  himself, — but,  otherwise,  to  let  them  pass 
On  tip-toe  like  escaping  murderers, 

And  tell  my  cousin  merely — Marian  lives, 

Is  found,  and  finds  her  home  with  such  a friend, 
Myself,  Aurora.  Which  good  news,  6 She ’s  found/ 
Will  help  to  make  him  merry  in  his  love  : 

I send  it,  tell  him,  for  my  marriage-gift, 

As  good  as  orange- water  for  the  nerves, 

Or  perfumed  gloves  for  headache, — though  aware 
That  he,  except  of  love,  is  scarcely  sick : 

I mean  the  new  love  this  time,  . . since  last  year. 
Such  quick  forgetting  on  the  part  of  men ! 

Is  any  shrewder  trick  upon  the  cards 
To  enrich  them  ? pray  instruct  me  how ’t  is  done  : 
First,  clubs, — and  while  you  look  at  clubs,  ’t  is  spade 
That ’s  prodigy.  The  lightning  strikes  a man, 

And  when  we  think  to  find  him  dead  and  charred  . . 
Why,  there  he  is  on  a sudden,  playing  pipes 
Beneath  the  splintered  elm-tree ! Crime  and  shame 
And  all  their  hoggery  trample  your  smooth  world, 
Nor  leave  more  foot-marks  than  Apollo’s  kine 
Whose  hoofs  were  muffled  by  the  thieving  god 
In  tamarisk-leaves  and  myrtle.  I ’m  so  sad, 

So  weary  and  sad  to-night,  I ’m  somewhat  sour, — 
Forgive  me.  To  be  blue  and  shrew  at  once, 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


285 


Exceeds  all  toleration  except  yours, 

But  yours,  I know,  is  infinite.  Farewell. 
To-morrow  we  take  train  for  Italy. 

Speak  gently  of  me  to  your  gracious  wife, 

As  one,  however  far,  shall  yet  be  near 
In  loving  wishes  to  your  house.’ 

I sign. 

And  now  I loose  my  heart  upon  a page, 

This — 

‘ Lady  Waldemar,  I’m  very  glad 
I never  liked  you ; which  you  knew  so  well 
You  spared  me,  in  your  turn,  to  like  me  much  : 
Your  liking  surely  had  done  worse  for  me 
Than  has  your  loathing,  though  the  last  appears 
Sufficiently  unscrupulous  to  hurt, 

And  not  afraid  of  judgment.  Now,  there ’s  space 
Between  our  faces, — I stand  off,  as  if 
I judged  a stranger’s  portrait  and  pronounced 
Indifferently  the  type  was  good  or  bad. 

What  matter  to  me  that  the  lines  are  false, 

I ask  you  ? did  I ever  ink  my  lips 
By  drawing  your  name  through  them  as  a friend’s, 
Or  touch  your  hands  as  lovers  do  ? Thank  God 
I never  did  : and  since  you’re  proved  so  vile, 

Ay,  vile,  I say, — we  ’ll  show  it  presently, — 

I ’m  not  obliged  to  nurse  my  friend  in  you, 

Or  wash  out  my  own  blots,  in  counting  yours, 

Or  even  excuse  myself  to  honest  souls 
Who  seek  to  press  my  lip  or  clasp  my  palm, — 

4 Alas,  but  Lady  Waldemar  came  first ! ’ 


286 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


‘ ’T  is  true,  by  this  time  you  may  near  me  so 

That  you  ’re  my  cousin’s  wife.  You  ’ve  gambled  deep 

As  Lucifer,  and  won  the  morning-star 

In  that  case, — and  the  noble  house  of  Leigh 

Must  henceforth  with  its  good  roof  shelter  you : 

I cannot  speak  and  burn  you  up  between 
Those  rafters,  I who  am  born  a Leigh, — nor  speak 
And  pierce  your  breast  through  Romney’s,  I who  live 
His  friend  and  cousin, — so,  you  ’re  safe.  You  two 
Must  grow  together  like  the  tares  and  wheat 
Till  God’s  great  fire. — But  make  the  best  of  time. 

‘ And  hide  this  letter : let  it  speak  no  more 
Than  I shall,  how  you  tricked  poor  Marian  Erie, 

And  set  her  own  love  digging  its  own  grave 
Within  her  green  hope’s  pretty  garden-ground, — 

Ay,  sent  her  forth  with  some  one  of  your  sort 
To  a wdcked  house  in  France,  from  which  she  fled 
With  curses  in  her  eyes  and  ears  and  throat, 

Her  whole  soul  choked  with  curses, — mad  in  short, 
And  madly  scouring  up  and  down  for  weeks 
The  foreign  hedgeless  country,  lone  and  lost, — 

So  innocent,  male-fiends  might  slink  within 
Remote  hell-corners,  seeing  her  so  defiled. 

4 But  you, — you  are  a woman  and  more  bold. 

To  do  you  justice,  you ’d  not  shrink  to  face  . . 

We  ’ll  say,  the  unfledged  life  in  the  other  room, 
Which,  treading  down  God’s  corn,  you  trod  in  sight 
Of  all  the  dogs,  in  reach  of  all  the  guns, — 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


287 


Ay,  Marian’s  babe,  ber  poor  unfathered  child, 

Her  yearling  babe  ! — you ’d  face  him  when  he  wakes 
And  opens  up  his  wonderful  blue  eyes : 

You ’d  meet  them  and  not  wink  perhaps,  nor  fear 
God’s  triumph  in  them  and  supreme  revenge 
When  righting  His  creation’s  balance-scale 
(You  pulled  as  low  as  Tophet)  to  the  top 
Of  most  celestial  innocence.  For  me 
Who  am  not  as  bold,  I own  those  infant  eyes 
Have  set  me  praying. 

4 While  they  look  at  heaven, 

No  need  of  protestation  in  my  words 

Against  the  place  you ’ve  made  them ! let  them  look. 

They  ’ll  do  your  business  with  the  heavens,  be  sure  : 

I spare  you  common  curses. 

4 Ponder  this ; 

If  haply  you  ’re  the  wife  of  Romney  Leigh, 

(For  which  inheritance  beyond  your  birth 

You  sold  that  poisonous  porridge  called  your  soul) 

I charge  you,  be  his  faithful  and  true  wife  ! 

Keep  warm  his  hearth  and  clean  his  board,  and,  when 
He  speaks,  be  quick  with  your  obedience  ; 

Still  grind  your  paltry  wants  and  low  desires 
To  dust  beneath  his  heel ; though,  even  thus, 

The  ground  must  hurt  him, — it  was  writ  of  old, 
k Ye  shall  not  yoke  together  ox  and  ass,’ 

The  nobler  and  ignobler.  Ay,  but  you 
Shall  do  your  part  as  well  as  such  ill  things 
Can  do  aught  good.  You  shall  not  vex  him, — mark, 
You  shall  not  vex  him,  jar  him  when  he ’s  sad, 


288 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


Or  cross  him  when  he ’s  eager.  Understand 
To  trick  him  with  apparent  sympathies, 

Nor  let  him  see  thee  in  the  face  too  near 
And  unlearn  thy  sweet  seeming.  Pay  the  price 
Of  lies,  by  being  constrained  to  lie  on  still : 

’T  is  easy  for  thy  sort : a million  more 
Will  scarcely  damn  thee  deeper. 

‘ Doing  which 

Yon  are  very  safe  from  Marian  and  myself ; 

We  ’ll  breathe  as  softly  as  the  infant  here, 

And  stir  no  dangerous  embers.  Fail  a point, 

And  show  our  Romney  wounded,  ill-content, 
Tormented  in  his  home,  we  open  mouth, 

And  such  a noise  will  follow,  the  last  trump’s 
Will  scarcely  seem  more  dreadful,  even  to  you  ; 

You  ’ll  have  no  pipers  after  : Romney  will 
(I  know  him)  push  you  forth  as  none  of  his, 

All  other  men  declaring  it  well  done, 

While  women,  even  the  worst,  your  like,  will  draw 
Their  skirts  back,  not  to  brush  you  in  the  street, 
And  so  I warn  you.  I’m...  Aurora  Leigh.’ 

The  letter  written  I felt  satisfied. 

The  ashes,  smouldering  in  me,  were  thrown  out 
By  handfuls  from  me  : I had  writ  my  heart 
And  wept  my  tears,  and  now  was  cool  and  calm  ; 
And,  going  straightway  to  the  neighbouring  room, 

I lifted  up  the  curtains  of  the  bed 
Where  Marian  Erie,  the  babe  upon  her  arm, 

Both  faces  leaned  together  like  a pair 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


289 


Of  folded  innocences  self- complete, 

Each  smiling  from  the  other,  smiled  and  slept. 

There  seemed  no  sin,  no  shame,  no  wrath,  no  grief. 

I felt  she  too  had  spoken  words  that  night, 

But  softer  certainly,  and  said  to  God, 

Who  laughs  in  heaven  perhaps  that  such  as  I 
Should  make  ado  for  such  as  she. — 4 Defiled  ’ 

I wrote  ? 4 defiled  ’ I thought  her?  Stoop, 

Stoop  lower,  Aurora ! get  the  angels’  leave 
To  creep  in  somewhere,  humbly,  on  your  knees, 
Within  this  round  of  sequestration  white 
In  which  they  have  wrapt  earth’s  foundlings,  heaven’s 
elect. 

The  next  day  we  took  train  to  Italy 
And  fled  on  southward  in  the  roar  of  steam. 

The  marriage -bells  of  Romney  must  be  loud, 

To  sound  so  clear  through  all : I was  not  well, 

And  truly,  though  the  truth  is  like  a jest, 

I could  not  choose  but  fancy,  half  the  way, 

I stood  alone  i’  the  belfry,  fifty  bells 
Of  naked  iron,  mad  with  merriment, 

(As  one  who  laughs  and  cannot  stop  himself) 

All  clanking  at  me,  in  me,  over  me, 

Until  I shrieked  a shriek  I could  not  hear, 

And  swooned  with  noise, — but  still,  along  my  swoon, 
Was  ’ware  the  baffled  changes  backward  rang, 
Prepared,  at  each  emerging  sense,  to  beat 
And  crash  it  out  with  clangour.  I was  weak ; 

I struggled  for  the  posture  of  my  soul 


U 


290 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


In  upright  consciousness  of  place  and  time, 

But  evermore,  ’twixt  waking  and  asleep, 

Slipped  somehow,  staggered,  caught  at  Marian’s  eyes 
A moment,  (it  is  very  good  for  strength  • 

To  know  that  some  one  needs  you  to  he  strong) 

And  so  recovered  what  I called  myself, 

For  that  time. 

I just  knew  it  when  we  swept 
Above  the  old  roofs  of  Dijon  : Lyons  dropped 
A spark  into  the  night,  half  trodden  out 
Unseen.  But  presently  the  winding  Bhone 
Washed  out  the  moonlight  large  along  his  banks 
Which  strained  their  yielding  curves  out  clear  and  clean 
To  hold  it, — shadow  of  town  and  castle  blurred 
Upon  the  hurrying  river.  Such  an  air 
Blew  thence  upon  the  forehead, — half  an  air 
And  half  a water, — that  I leaned  and  looked, 

Then,  turning  back  on  Marian,  smiled  to  mark 
That  she  looked  only  on  her  child,  who  slept, 

His  face  toward  the  moon  too. 

So  we  passed 

The  liberal  open  country  and  the  close, 

And  shot  through  tunnels,  like  a lightning- wedge 
By  great  Thor-hammers  driven  through  the  rock, 
Which,  quivering  through  the  intestine  blackness,  splits, 
And  lets  it  in  at  once  : the  train  swept  in 
Athrob  with  effort,  trembling  with  resolve, 

The  fierce  denouncing  whistle  wailing  on 
And  dying  off  smothered  in  the  shuddering  dark, 

While  we,  selfiawed,  drew  troubled  breath,  oppressed 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


291 


As  other  Titans  underneath  the  pile 

And  nightmare  of  the  mountains.  Out,  at  last, 

To  catch  the  dawn  afloat  upon  the  land ! 

— Hills,  slung  forth  broadly  and  gauntly  everywhere, 
Not  crampt  in  their  foundations,  pushing  wide 
Kich  outspreads  of  the  vineyards  and  the  corn, 

(As  if  they  entertained  i’  the  name  of  France) 

While,  down  their  straining  sides,  streamed  manifest 
A soil  as  red  as  Charlemagne’s  knightly  blood, 

To  consecrate  the  verdure.  Some  one  said, 

4 Marseilles  !’  And  lo,  the  city  of  Marseilles, 

With  all  her  ships  behind  her,  and  beyond, 

The  scimitar  of  ever-shining  sea 

For  right-hand  use,  bared  blue  against  the  sky  ! 

That  night  we  spent  between  the  purple  heaven 
And  purple  water  : I think  Marian  slept ; 

But  I,  as  a dog  a-watch  for  his  master’s  foot, 

Who  cannot  sleep  or  eat  before  he  hears, 

I sate  upon  the  deck  and  watched  the  night 
And  listened  through  the  stars  for  Italy. 

Those  marriage-bells  I spoke  of,  sounded  far, 

As  some  child’s  go-cart  in  the  street  beneath 
To  a dying  man  who  will  not  pass  the  day, 

And  knows  it,  holding  by  a hand  he  loves. 

I too  sate  quiet,  satisfied  with  death, 

Sate  silent : I could  hear  my  own  soul  speak, 

And  had  my  friend, — for  Nature  comes  sometimes 
And  says,  4 1 am  ambassador  for  God.’ 

I felt  the  wind  soft  from  the  land  of  souls  ; 


292 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


The  old  miraculous  mountains  heaved  in  sight, 

One  straining  past  another  along  the  shore, 

The  way  of  grand  dull  Odyssean  ghosts, 

Athirst  to  drink  the  cool  blue  wine  of  seas 
And  stare  on  voyagers.  Peak  pushing  peak 
They  stood : I watched,  beyond  that  Tyrian  belt 
Of  intense  sea  betwixt  them  and  the  ship, 

Down  all  their  sides  the  misty  olive-woods 
Dissolving  in  the  weak  congenial  moon 
And  still  disclosing  some  brown  con  vent- tower 
That  seems  as  if  it  grew  from  some  brown  rock, 

Or  many  a little  lighted  village,  dropt 
Like  a fallen  star  upon  so  high  a point, 

You  wonder  what  can  keep  it  in  its  place 
From  sliding  headlong  with  the  waterfalls 
Which  powder  all  the  myrtle  and  orange  groves 
With  spray  of  silver.  Thus  my  Italy 
Was  stealing  on  us.  Genoa  broke  with  day, 

The  Doria’s  long  pale  palace  striking  out, 

From  green  hills  in  advance  of  the  white  town, 

A marble  finger  dominant  to  ships, 

Seen  glimmering  through  the  uncertain  gray  of  dawn. 

And  then  I did  not  think,  ‘ my  Italy,’ 

I thought,  ‘ my  father  ! ’ 0 my  father’s  house, 

Without  his  presence  ! — Places  are  too  much 
Or  else  too  little,  for  immortal  man, — 

Too  little,  when  love’s  May  o’ergrows  the  ground, 

Too  much,  when  that  luxuriant  robe  of  green 
Is  rustling  to  our  ankles  in  dead  leaves. 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


293 


*T  is  only  good  to  be  or  here  or  there, 

Because  we  had  a dream  on  such  a stone, 

Or  this  or  that, — but,  once  being  wholly  waked 
And  come  back  to  the  stone  without  the  dream, 

We  trip  upon ’t, — alas,  and  hurt  ourselves ; 

Or  else  it  falls  on  us  and  grinds  us  flat, 

The  heaviest  grave-stone  on  this  burying  earth. 

— But  while  I stood  and  mused,  a quiet  touch 
Fell  light  upon  my  arm,  and  turning  round, 

A pair  of  moistened  eyes  convicted  mine. 

4 What,  Marian  ! is  the  babe  astir  so  soon  ?’ 

4 He  sleeps,’  she  answered  ;  I * *  4 1 have  crept  up  thrice, 
And  seen  you  sitting,  standing,  still  at  watch. 

I thought  it  did  you  good  till  now,  but  now  ’ . . . 

4 But  now,’  I said,  4 you  leave  the  child  alone.’ 

4 And  you  ’re  alone,’  she  answered, — and  she  looked 

As  if  I too  were  something.  Sweet  the  help 

Of  one  we  have  helped ! Thanks,  Marian,  for  such  help. 

I found  a house  at  Florence  on  the  hill 
Of  Bellosguardo.  ’T  is  a tower  which  keeps 
A post  of  double-observation  o’er 
That  valley  of  Arno  (holding  as  a hand 
The  outspread  city,)  straight  toward  Fiesole 
And  Mount  Morello  and  the  setting  sun, 

The  Yallombrosan  mountains  opposite, 

Which  sunrise  fills  as  full  as  crystal  cups 
Turned  red  to  the  brim  because  their  wine  is  red. 

No  sun  could  die  nor  yet  be  born  unseen 
By  dwellers  at  my  villa  : morn  and  eve 


294 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


Were  magnified  before  ns  in  the  pure 
inimitable  space  and  pause  of  sky, 

Intense  as  angels’  garments  blanched  with  God, 

Less  blue  than  radiant.  From  the  outer  wall 
Of  the  garden,  drops  the  mystic  floating  gray 
Of  olive-trees,  (with  interruptions  green 
From  maize  and  vine)  until ’t  is  caught  and  torn 
Upon  the  abrupt  black  line  of  cypresses 
Which  signs  the  way  to  Florence.  Beautiful 
The  city  lies  along  the  ample  vale, 

Cathedral,  tower  and  palace,  piazza  and  street, 

The  river  trailing  like  a silver  cord 
Through  all,  and  curling  loosely,  both  before 
And  after,  over  the  whole  stretch  of  land 
Sown  whitely  up  and  down  its  opposite  slopes 
With  farms  and  villas. 

Many  weeks  had  passed, 

No  word  was  granted. — Last,  a letter  came 
From  Yincent  Carrington : — 4 My  dear  Miss  Leigh, 

You ’ve  been  as  silent  as  a poet  should, 

When  any  other  man  is  sure  to  speak. 

If  sick,  if  vexed,  if  dumb,  a silver  piece 
Will  split  a man’s  tongue, — straight  he  speaks  and  says, 
4 Received  that  cheque.’  But  you ! . . I send  you  funds 
To  Paris,  and  you  make  no  sign  at  all. 

Remember  I ’m  responsible  and  wait 
A sign  of  you,  Miss  Leigh. 

‘ Meantime  your  book 
Is  eloquent  as  if  you  were  not  dumb ; 

And  common  critics,  ordinarily  deaf 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


295 


To  such  fine  meanings,  and,  like  deaf  men,  loth 
To  seem  deaf,  answering  chance-wise,  yes  or  no, 

4 It  must  be  ’ or  4 it  must  not,’  (most  pronounced 
When  least  convinced)  pronounce  for  once  aright : 
You ’d  think  they  really  heard, — and  so  they  do  . . 
The  burr  of  three  or  four  who  really  hear 
And  praise  your  book  aright : Fame’s  smallest  trump 
Is  a great  ear-trumpet  for  the  deaf  as  posts, 

No  other  being  effective.  Fear  not,  friend ; 

We  think  here  you  have  written  a good  book, 

And  you,  a woman  ! It  was  in  you — yes, 

I felt ’t  was  in  you  : yet  I doubted  half 
If  that  od-force  of  German  Beichenbach, 

Which  still  from  female  finger-tips  burns  blue, 

Could  strike  out  as  our  masculine  white  heats 
To  quicken  a man.  Forgive  me.  All  my  heart 
Is  quick  with  yours  since,  just  a fortnight  since, 

I read  your  book  and  loved  it. 

4 Will  you  love 

My  wife,  too  ? Here ’s  my  secret  I might  keep 
A month  more  from  you ! but  I yield  it  up 
Because  I know  you  ’ll  write  the  sooner  for ’t, 

Most  women  (of  your  height  even)  counting  love 
Life’s  only  serious  business.  Who ’s  my  wife 
That  shall  be  in  a month,  you  ask  ? nor  guess 
Bemember  what  a pair  of  topaz  eyes 
You  once  detected,  turned  against  the  wall, 

That  morning  in  my  London  painting-room  ; 

The  face  half- sketched,  and  slurred  ; the  eyes  alone  ! 
But  you  . . you  caught  them  up  with  yours,  and  said 


296 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


‘ Kate  Ward’s  eyes,  surely.’ — Now  I own  the  truth  : 

I had  thrown  them  there  to  keep  them  safe  from  Jove, 
They  would  so  naughtily  find  out  their  way 
To  both  the  heads  of  both  my  Danaes 
Where  just  it  made  me  mad  to  look  at  them. 

Such  eyes  ! I could  not  paint  or  think  of  eyes 
But  those, — and  so  I flung  them  into  paint 
And  turned  them  to  the  wall’s  care.  Ay,  but  now 
I ’ve  let  them  out,  my  Kate’s : I ’ve  painted  her, 

(I  change  my  style  and  leave  mythologies) 

The  whole  sweet  face  ; it  looks  upon  my  soul 
Like  a face  on  water,  to  beget  itself. 

A half-length  portrait,  in  a hanging  cloak 
Like  one  you  wore  once  ; ’t  is  a little  frayed, — 

I pressed  too  for  the  nude  harmonious  arm — 

But  she,  she ’d  have  her  way,  and  have  her  cloak ; 

She  said  she  could  be  like  you  only  so, 

And  would  not  miss  the  fortune.  Ah,  my  friend, 

You  ’ll  write  and  say  she  shall  not  miss  your  love 
Through  meeting  mine  ? in  faith,  she  would  not  change 
She  has  your  books  by  heart  more  than  my  words, 

And  quotes  you  up  against  me  till  I ’m  pushed 
Where,  three  months  since,  her  eyes  were : nay,  in  facl 
Nought  satisfied  her  but  to  make  me  paint 
Your  last  book  folded  in  her  dimpled  hands 
Instead  of  my  brown  palette  as  I wished, 
iVnd,  grant  me,  the  presentment  had  been  newer; 

She ’d  grant  me  nothing : I compounded  for 
The  naming  of  the  wedding-day  next  month, 

And  gladly  too.  ’T  is  pretty,  to  remark 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


29 


How  women  can  love  women  of  your  sort, 

And  tie  their  hearts  with  love-knots  to  your  feet, 
Grow  insolent  about  you  against  men 
And  put  us  down  by  putting  up  the  lip, 

As  if  a man, — there  are  such,  let  us  own, 

Who  write  not  ill, — remains  a man,  poor  wretch, 

While  you ! Write  weaker  than  Aurora  Leigh, 

And  there  ’ll  be  women  who  believe  of  you 
(Besides  my  Kate)  that  if  you  walked  on  sand 
You  would  not  leave  a foot-print. 

4 Are  you  put 

To  wonder  by  my  marriage,  like  poor  Leigh  ? 

4 Kate  Ward !’  he  said.  4 Kate  Ward !’  he  said  anew. 

4 1 thought*  . he  said,  and  stopped, — 4 1 did  not  think  . 
And  then  he  dropped  to  silence. 

4 Ah,  he’s  changed. 

I had  not  seen  him,  you  ’re  aware,  for  long, 

But  went  of  course.  I have  not  touched  on  this 
Through  all  this  letter, — conscious  of  your  heart, 
And  writing  lightlier  for  the  heavy  fact. 

As  clocks  are  voluble  with  lead. 

4 How  poor, 

To  say  I ’m  sorry  ! dear  Leigh,  dearest  Leigh. 

In  those  old  days  of  Shropshire, — pardon  me, — 
When  he  and  you  fought  many  a field  of  gold 
On  what  you  should  do,  or  you  should  not  do, 

Make  bread  or  verses,  (it  just  came  to  that) 

I thought  you ’d  one  day  draw  a silken  peace 
Through  a golden  ring.  I thought  so  : foolishly, 

The  event  proved, — for  you  went  more  opposite 


298 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


To  each  other,  month  by  month,  and  year  by  year, 
Until  this  happened.  God  knows  best,  we  say, 

But  hoarsely.  When  the  fever  took  him  first, 

Just  after  I had  writ  to  you  in  France, 

They  tell  me  Lady  Waldemar  mixed  drinks 
And  counted  grains,  like  any  salaried  nurse, 

Excepting  that  she  wept  too.  Then  Lord  Howe, 

You  ’re  right  about  Lord  Howe,  Lord  Howe’s  a trump, 
And  yet,  with  such  in  his  hand,  a man  like  Leigh 
May  lose  as  he  does.  There ’s  an  end  to  all, 

Yes,  even  this  letter,  though  this  second  sheet 
May  find  you  doubtful.  Write  a word  for  Kate  : 

She  reads  my  letters  always,  like  a wife, 

And  if  she  sees  her  name  I ’ll  see  her  smile  • 

And  share  the  luck.  So,  bless  you,  friend  of  two ! 

I will  not  ask  you  what  your  feeling  is 
At  Florence  with  my  pictures  ; I can  hear 
Your  heart  a-flutter  over  the  snow-hills  : 

And,  just  to  pace  the  Pitti  with  you  once, 

I ’d  give  a half-hour  of  to-morrow’s  walk 
With  Kate  . . I think  so.  Vincent  Carrington.’ 

The  noon  was  hot ; the  air  scorched  like  the  sun 
And  was  shut  out.  The  closed  persiani  threw 
Their  long-scored  shadows  on  my  villa-floor, 

And  interlined  the  golden  atmosphere 
Straight,  still* — across  the  pictures  on  the  wall, 

The  statuette  on  the  console,  (of  young  Love 
And  Psyche  made  one  marble  by  a kiss) 

The  low  couch  where  I leaned,  the  table  near, 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


299 


The  vase  of  lilies  Marian  pulled  last  night 
(Each  green  leaf  and  each  white  leaf  ruled  in  black 
As  if  for  writing  some  new  text  of  fate) 

And  the  open  letter,  rested  on  my  knee, 

But  there  the  lines  swerved,  trembled,  though  I sate 
Untroubled,  plainly,  reading  it  again 
And  three  times.  Well,  he  ’s  married  ; that  is  clear. 
No  wonder  that  he ’s  married,  nor  much  more 
That  Vincent ’s  therefore  ‘ sorry.’  Why,  of  course 
The  lady  nursed  him  when  he  was  not  well, 

Mixed  drinks, — unless  nepenthe  was  the  drink 
’T  was  scarce  worth  telling.  But  a man  in  love 
Will  see  the  whole  sex  in  his  mistress’  hood, 

The  prettier^for  its  lining  of  fair  rose, 

Although  he  catches  back  and  says  at  last, 

4 1 ’m  sorry.’  Sorry.  Lady  Waldemar 
At  prettiest,  under  the  said  hood,  preserved 
From  such  a light  as  I could  hold  to  her  face 
To  flare  its  ngly  wrinkles  out  to  shame, 

Is  scarce  a wife  for  Romney,  as  friends  jndge, 

Aurora  Leigh  or  Vincent  Carrington, 

That ’s  plain.  And  if  he ’s  ‘ conscious  of  my  heart  ’ . . 
It  may  be  natural,  though  the  phrase  is  strong  ; 

(One ’s  apt  to  use  strong  phrases,  being  in  love) 

And  even  that  stuff  of  4 fields  of  gold,’  4 gold  rings,’ 

And  what  he  4 thought,’  poor  Vincent,  what  he 
4 thought,’ 

May  never  mean  enough  to  ruffle  me. 

— Why,  this  room  stifles.  Better  burn  than  choke  ; 
Best  have  air,  air,  although  it  comes  with  fire, — 


300 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


Throw  open  blinds  and  windows  to  the  noon 

And  take  a blister  on  my  brow  instead 

Of  this  dead  weight ! best,  perfectly  be  stunned 

By  those  insufferable  cicale,  sick 

And  hoarse  with  rapture  of  the  summer-heat, 

That  sing,  like  poets,  till  their  hearts  break, — sing 
Till  men  say,  4 It ’s  too  tedious.’ 

Books  succeed, 

And  lives  fail.  Do  I feel  it  so,  at  last  ? 

Kate  loves  a worn-out  cloak  for  being  like  mine, 
While  I live  self-despised  for  being  myself, 

And  yearn  toward  some  one  else,  who  yearns  away 
From  what  he  is,  in  his  turn.  Strain  a step 
F or  ever,  yet  gain  no  step  ? Are  we  such, 

We  cannot,  with  our  admirations  even, 

Our  tip-toe  aspirations,  touch  a thing 
That ’s  higher  than  we  ? is  all  a dismal  flat, 

And  God  alone  above  each,  as  the  sun 

O’er  level  lagunes,  to  make  them  shine  and  stink,  — 

Laying  stress  upon  us  with  immediate  flame, 

While  we  respond  with  our  miasmal  fog 
And  call  it  mounting  higher  because  we  grow 
More  highly  fatal  ? 

Tush,  Aurora  Leigh ! 

You  wear  your  sackcloth  looped  in  Caesar’s  way 
And  brag  your  failings  as  mankind’s.  Be  still. 
There  is  what ’s  higher,  in  this  very  world, 

Than  you  can  live,  or  catch  at.  Stand  aside, 

And  look  at  others — instance  little  Kate  ! 

She  ’ll  make  a perfect  wife  for  Carrington. 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


301 


She  always  has  been  looking  round  the  earth 
For  something  good  and  green  to  alight  upon 
And  nestle  into,  with  those  soft-winged  eyes, 
Subsiding  now  beneath  his  manly  hand 
’Twixt  trembling  lids  of  inexpressive  joy. 

I will  not  scorn  her,  after  all,  too  much, 

That  so  much  she  should  love  me  : a wise  man 
Can  pluck  a leaf,  and  find  a lecture  in ’t ; 

And  I,  too,  . . God  has  made  me, — I ’ve  a heart 
That ’s  capable  of  worship,  love,  and  loss  ; 

We  say  the  same  of  Shakespeare’s.  I ’ll  be  meek 
And  learn  to  reverence,  even  this  poor  myself. 

The  book,  too — pass  it.  ‘ A good  book,’  says  he, 

‘ And  you  a woman.’  I had  laughed  at  that, 

But  long  since.  I ’m  a woman, — it  is  true  ; 

Alas,  and  woe  to  us,  when  we  feel  it  most ! 

Then,  least  care  have  we  for  the  crowns  and  goals 
And  compliments  on  writing  our  good  books. 

The  book  has  some  truth  in  it,  I believe, 

And  truth  outlives  pain,  as  the  soul  does  life. 

I know  we  talk  our  Phsedons  to  the  end, 

Through  all  the  dismal  faces  that  we  make, 
O’er-wrinkled  with  dishonouring  agony 
From  decomposing  drugs.  I have  written  truth. 
And  I a woman, — feebly,  partially, 

Inaptly  in  presentation,  Romney  ’ll  add, 

Because  a woman.  For  the  truth  itself, 

That ’s  neither  man’s  nor  woman’s,  but  just  God’s, 


802 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


None  else  lias  reason  to  be  proud  of  truth  : 

Himself  will  see  it  sifted,  disenthralled, 

And  kept  upon  the  height  and  in  the  light, 

As  far  as  and  no  farther  than  ’t  is  truth  ; 

For,  now  He  has  left  off  calling  firmaments 
And  strata,  flowers  and  creatures,  very  good, 

He  says  it  still  of  truth,  which  is  His  own. 

Truth,  so  far,  in  my  book ; — the  truth  which  draws 
Through  all  things  upwards, — that  a twofold  world 
Must  go  to  a perfect  cosmos.  Natural  things 
And  spiritual, — who  separates  those  two 
In  art,  in  morals,  or  the  social  drift, 

Tears  up  the  bond  of  nature  and  brings  death, 
Paints  futile  pictures,  writes  unreal  verse, 

Leads  vulgar  days,  deals  ignorantly  with  men, 

Is  wrong,  in  short,  at  all  points.  We  divide 
This  apple  of  life,  and  cut  it  through  the  pips, — 
The  perfect  round  which  fitted  Venus’  hand 
Has  perished  as  utterly  as  if  we  ate 
Both  halves.  Without  the  spiritual,  observe, 

The  natural ’s  impossible, — no  form, 

No  motion : without  sensuous,  spiritual 
Is  inappreciable, — no  beauty  or  power : 

And  in  this  twofold  sphere  the  twofold  man 
(For  still  the  artist  is  intensely  a man) 

Holds  firmly  by  the  natural,  to  reach 

The  spiritual  beyond  it, — fixes  still 

The  type  with  mortal  vision,  to  pierce  through, 

With  eyes  immortal,  to  the  ante  type 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


303 


Some  call  tlie  ideal, — better  called  the  real, 

And  certain  to  be  called  so  presently 

When  things  shall  have  their  names.  Look  long  enough 

On  any  peasant’s  face  here,  coarse  and  lined, 

You  ’ll  catch  Antinous  somewhere  in  that  clay, 

As  perfect  featured  as  he  yearns  at  Rome 
From  marble  pale  with  beauty ; then  persist, 

And,  if  your  apprehension’s  competent, 

You  ’ll  find  some  fairer  angel  at  his  back, 

As  much  exceeding  him  as  he  the  boor, 

And  pushing  him  with  empyreal  disdain 
For  ever  out  of  sight.  Ay,  Carrington 
Is  glad  of  such  a creed  : an  artist  must, 

Who  paints  a tree,  a leaf,  a common  stone 
With  just  his  hand,  and  finds  it  suddenly 
A-piece  with  and  conterminous  to  his  soul. 

Why  else  do  these  things  move  him,  leaf,  or  stone  ? 

The  bird ’s  not  moved,  that  pecks  at  a spring-shoot; 

Nor  yet  the  horse,  before  a quarry  a-graze : 

But  man,  the  two-fold  creature,  apprehends 
The  two-fold  manner,  in  and  outwardly, 

And  nothing  in  the  world  comes  single  to  him, 

A mere  itself, — cup,  column,  or  candlestick, 

All  patterns  of  what  shall  be  in  the  Mount ; 

The  whole  temporal  show  related  royally, 

And  built  up  to  eterne  significance 

Through  the  open  arms  of  God.  4 There ’s  nothing  great 

Nor  small,’  has  said  a poet  of  our  day, 

Whose  voice  will  ring  beyond  the  curfew  of  eve 
And  not  be  thrown  out  by  the  matin’s  bell : 


304 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


And  truly,  I reiterate,  nothing  ’s  small ! 

No  lily-muffled  hum  of  a summer-bee, 

But  finds  some  coupling  with  the  spinning  stars ; 

No  pebble  at  your  foot,  but  proves  a sphere ; 

No  chaffinch,  but  implies  the  cherubim ; 

And,  (glancing  on  my  own  thin,  veined  wrist,) 

In  such  a little  tremour  of  the  blood 

The  whole  strong  clamour  of  a vehement  soul 

Doth  utter  itself  distinct.  Earth ’s  crammed  with  heaven, 

And  every  common  bush  afire  with  God ; 

But  only  he  who  sees,  takes  off  his  shoes, 

The  rest  sit  round  it  and  pluck  blackberries, 

And  daub  their  natural  faces  unaware 
More  and  more  from  the  first  similitude. 

Truth,  so  far,  in  my  book  ! a truth  which  draws 
From  all  things  upward.  I,  Aurora,  still 
Have  felt  it  hound  me  through  the  wastes  of  life 
As  Jove  did  Io ; and,  until  that  Hand 
Shall  overtake  me  wholly  and  on  my  head 
Lay  down  its  large  unfluctuating  peace, 

The  feverish  gad-fly  pricks  me  up  and  down. 

It  must  be.  Art ’s  the  witness  of  what  Is 
Behind  this  show.  If  this  world’s  show  were  all, 

Then  imitation  would  be  all  in  Art ; 

There,  Jove’s  hand  gripes  us  ! — For  we  stand  here,  we, 
If  genuine  artists,  witnessing  for  God’s 
Complete,  consumate,  undivided  work ; 

— That  every  natural  flower  which  grows  on  earth 
Implies  a flower  upon  the  spiritual  side, 


AURORA  LEIGH, 


305 


Substantial,  archetypal,  all  a-glow 
With  blossoming  causes, — not  so  far  away, 

But  we,  whose  spirit-sense  is  somewhat  cleared, 

May  catch  at  something  of  the  bloom  and  breath, — 
Too  vaguely  apprehended,  though  indeed 
Still  apprehended,  consciously  or  not, 

And  still  transferred  to  -picture,  music,  verse, 

For  thrilling  audient  and  beholding  souls 
By  signs  and  touches  which  are  known  to  souls. 

How  known,  they  know  not, — why,  they  cannot  find. 
So  straight  call  out  on  genius,  say,  ‘ A man 
Produced  this/  when  much  rather  they  should  say, 

4 ’T  is  insight  and  he  saw  this.’ 

Thus  is  Art 

Self-magnified  in  magnifying  a truth 

Which,  fully  recognised,  would  change  the  world 

And  shift  its  morals.  If  a man  could  feel, 

Not  one  day,  in  the  artist’s  ecstasy, 

But  every  day,  feast,  fast,  or  working-day, 

The  spiritual  significance  burn  through 
The  hieroglyphic  of  material  shows, 

Henceforward  he  would  paint  the  globe  with  wings, 
And  reverence  fish  and  fowl,  the  bull,  the  tree, 

And  even  his  very  body  as  a man, — 

Which  now  he  counts  so  vile,  that  all  the  towns 
Make  offal  of  their  daughters  for  its  use, 

On  summer-nights,  when  God  is  sad  in  heaven 
To  think  what  goes  on  in  his  recreant  world 
He  made  quite  other ; while  that  moon  He  made 
To  shine  there,  at  the  first  love’s  covenant, 


x 


306 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


Shines  still,  convictive  as  a marriage-ring 
Before  adulterous  eyes. 

How  sure  it  is, 

That,  if  we  say  a true  word,  instantly 
We  feel ’t  is  God’s,  not  ours,  and  pass  it  on 
Like  bread  at  sacrament  we  taste  and  pass 
Nor  handle  for  a moment,  as  indeed 
We  dared  to  set  up  any  claim  to  such ! 

And  I — my  poem, — let  my  readers  talk. 

I ’m  closer  to  it — I can  speak  as  well : 

I ’ll  say  with  Romney,  that  the  book  is  weak, 

The  range  uneven,  the  points  of  sight  obscure, 

The  music  interrupted. 

Let  us  go. 

The  end  of  woman  (or  of  man,  I think) 

Is  not  a book.  Alas,  the  best  of  books 
Is  but  a word  in  Art,  which  soons  grows  cramped, 
Stiff,  dubious-statured  with  the  weight  of  years, 
And  drops  an  accent  or  digamma  down 
Some  cranny  of  unfathomable  time, 

Beyond  the  critic’s  reaching.  Art  itself, 

We  ’ve  called  the  larger  life,  must  feel  the  soul 
Live  past  it.  For  more ’s  felt  than  is  perceived, 
And  more ’s  perceived  than  can  be  interpreted, 
And  Love  strikes  higher  with  his  lambent  flame 
Than  Art  can  pile  the  faggots. 

Is  it  so  ? 

When  Jove’s  hand  meets  us  with  composing  touch, 
And  when  at  last  we  are  hushed  and  satisfied, 
Then  Io  does  not  call  it  truth,  but  love  ? 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


307 


Well,  well ! my  father  was  an  Englishman : 

My  mother’s  blood  in  me  is  not  so  strong 
That  I should  bear  this  stress  of  Tuscan  noon 
And  keep  my  wits.  The  town,  there,  seems  to  seethe 
In  this  Median  boil-pot  of  the  sun, 

And  all  the  patient  hills  are  bubbling  round 
As  if  a prick  would  leave  them  flat.  Does  heaven 
Keep  far  off,  not  to  set  us  in  a blaze  ? 

Not  so, — let  drag  your  fiery  fringes,  heaven, 

And  burn  us  up  to  quiet.  Ah,  we  know 
Too  much  here,  not  to  know  what ’s  best  for  peace  ; 
We  have  too  much  light  here,  not  to  want  more  fire 
To  purify  and  end  us.  We  talk,  talk, 

Conclude  upon  divine  philosophies, 

And  get  the  thanks  of  men  for  hopeful  books, 

Whereat  we  take  our  own  life  up,  and  . . pshaw ! 
Unless  we  piece  it  with  another’s  life 
(A  yard  of  silk  to  carry  out  our  lawn) 

As  well  suppose  my  little  handkerchief 
Would  cover  Samminiato,  church  and  all, 

If  out  I threw  it  past  the  cypresses, 

As,  in  this  ragged,  narrow  life  of  mine, 

Contain  my  own  conclusions. 

But  at  least 

We  ’ll  shut  up  the  persiani  and  sit  down, 

And  when  my  head ’s  done  aching,  in  the  cool. 

Write  just  a word  to  Kate  and  Carrington. 

May  joy  be  with  them  ! she  has  chosen  well, 

And  he  not  ill. 


I should  be  glad,  I think, 


308 


AUEOEA  LEIGH. 


Except  for  Romney.  Had  he  married  Kate, 

I surely,  surely,  should  be  very  glad. 

This  Florence  sits  upon  me  easily, 

With  native  air  and  tongue.  My  graves  are  calm, 
And  do  not  too  much  hurt  me.  Marian ’s  good 
Gentle  and  loving, — lets  me  hold  the  child, 

Or  drags  him  up  the  hills  to  find  me  flowers 
And  fill  these  vases  ere  I ’m  quite  awake, — 

My  grandiose  red  tulips,  which  grow  wild, 

Or  Dante’s  purple  lilies,  which  he  blew 
To  a larger  bubble  with  his  prophet  breath, 

Or  one  of  those  tall  flowering  reeds  that  stand 
In  Arno,  like  a sheaf  of  sceptres  left 
By  some  remote  dynasty  of  dead  gods 
To  suck  the  stream  for  ages  and  get  green, 

And  blossom  wheresoe’er  a hand  divine 
Had  warmed  the  place  with  ichor.  Such  I find 
At  early  morning  laid  across  my  bed, 

And  wake  up  pelted  with  a childish  laugh 
Which  even  Marian’s  low  precipitous  4 hush 9 
Has  vainly  interposed  to  put  away,— 

While  I,  with  shut  eyes,  smile  and  motion  for 
The  dewy  kiss  that ’s  very  sure  to  come 
From  mouth  and  cheeks,  the  whole  child’s  face  at 
Dissolved  on  mine, — as  if  a nosegay  burst 
Its  string  with  the  weight  of  roses  overblown, 

And  dropt  upon  me.  Surely  I should  be  glad. 

The  little  creature  almost  loves  me  now, 

And  calls  my  name,  4 Alola,’  stripping  off 
The  rs  like  thorns,  to  make  it  smooth  enough 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


309 


To  take  between  bis  dainty,  milk-fed  lips, 

God  love  liirn ! I should  certainly  be  glad, 

Except,  God  belp  me,  that  I ’m  sorrowful 
Because  of  Bomney. 

Bomney,  Bomney ! Well, 
This  grows  absurd  !• — too  like  a tune  that  runs 
I*  the  bead,  and  forces  all  things  in  the  world, 
Wind,  rain,  the  creaking  gnat,  or  stuttering  fly, 

To  sing  itself  and  vex  you, — yet  perhaps 
A paltry  tune  you  never  fairly  liked, 

Some  ‘ I ’d  be  a butterfly,’  or  ‘ C’est  l’amour 
We  ’re  made  so, — not  such  tyrants  to  ourselves 
But  still  we  are  slaves  to  nature.  Some  of  us 
Are  turned,  too,  overmuch  like  some  poor  verse 
With  a trick  of  ritournelle  : the  same  thing  goes 
And  comes  back  ever. 

Yincent  Carrington 

Is  4 sorry,’  and  I ’m  sorry ; but  he ’s  strong 
To  mount  from  sorrow  to  his  heaven  of  love, 

And  when  he  says  at  moments,  4 Poor,  poor  Leigh, 
Who  ’ll  never  call  his  own  so  true  a heart, 

So  fair  a face  even,’ — he  must  quickly  lose 
The  pain  of  pity,  in  the  blush  he  makes 
By  his  very  pitying  eyes.  The  snow,  for  him, 

Has  fallen  in  May  and  finds  the  whole  earth  warm, 
And  melts  at  the  first  touch  of  the  green  grass. 

But  Bomney, — he  has  chosen,  after  all. 

I think  he  had  as  excellent  a sun 
To  see  by,  as  most  others,  and  perhaps 


310 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


Has  scarce  seen  really  worse  tlian  some  of  us 
When  all ’s  said.  Let  him  pass.  I ’m  not  too  much 
A woman,  not  to  he  a man  for  once 
And  bury  all  my  Dead  like  Alaric, 

Depositing  the  treasures  of  my  soul 
In  this  drained  water-course,  then  letting  flow 
The  river  of  life  again  with  commerce-ships 
And  pleasure-barges  full  of  silks  and  songs. 

Blow,  winds,  and  help  us. 

Ah,  we  mock  ourselves 
With  talking  of  the  winds  ; perhaps  as  much 
With  other  resolutions.  How  it  weighs, 

This  hot,  sick  air ! and  how  I covet  here 
The  Dead’s  provision  on  the  river-couch, 

With  silver  curtains  drawn  on  tinkling  rings ! 

Or  else  their  rest  in  quiet  crypts, — laid  by 
From  heat  and  noise  ; — from  those  cicale,  say, 

And  this  more  vexing  heart-beat. 

So  it  is : 

We  covet  for  the  soul,  the  body’s  part, 

To  die  and  rot.  Even  so,  Aurora,  ends 

Our  aspiration  who  bespoke  our  place 

So  far  in  the  east.  The  occidental  flats 

Had  fed  us  fatter,  therefore  ? we  have  climbed 

Where  herbage  ends  ? we  want  the  beast’s  part  now, 

And  tire  of  the  angel’s  ? — Men  define  a man, 

The  creature  who  stands  front- ward  to  the  stars, 

The  creature  who  looks  inward  to  himself, 

The  tool-wright,  laughing  creature.  ’T  is  enough  : 
We  ’ll  say  instead,  the  inconsequent  creature,  man, 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


311 


For  that ’s  his  specialty.  What  creature  else 
Conceives  the  circle,  and  then  walks  the  square  ? 

Loves  things  proved  had,  and  leaves  a thing  proved 
good? 

You  think  the  bee  makes  honey  half  a year, 

To  loathe  the  comb  in  winter  and  desire 
The  little  ant’s  food  rather  ? But  a man — 

Note  men ! — they  are  but  women  after  all, 

As  women  are  but  Auroras ! — there  are  men 
Born  tender,  apt  to  pale  at  a trodden  worm, 

Who  paint  for  pastime,  in  their  favourite  dream, 

Spruce  auto-vestments  flowered  with  crocus-flames 
There  are,  too,  who  believe  in  hell,  and  lie ; 

There  are,  too,  who  believe  in  heaven,  and  fear: 

There  are,  who  waste  their  souls  in  working  out 
Life’s  problem  on  these  sands  betwixt  two  tides, 
Concluding, — ‘ Give  us  the  oyster’s  part,  in  death.’ 

Alas,  long-suffering  and  most  paiient  God, 

Thou  needst  be  surelier  God  to  bear  with  us 
Than  even  to  have  made  us ! thou  aspire,  aspire 
From  henceforth  for  me ! thou  who  hast  thyself 
Endured  this  fleshhood,  knowing  how  as  a soaked 
And  sucking  vesture  it  can  drag  us  down 
And  choke  us  in  the  melancholy  Deep, 

Sustain  me,  that  with  thee  I walk  these  waves, 
Resisting ! — breathe  me  upward,  thou  in  me 
Aspiring  who  art  the  way,  the  truth,  the  life, — 

That  no  truth  henceforth  seem  indifferent, 

No  way  to  truth  laborious,  and  no  life, 


312 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


Not  even  this  life  I live,  intolerable ! 

The  days  went  by.  I took  up  the  old  days, 

With  all  their  Tuscan  pleasures  worn  and  spoiled, 
Like  some  lost  book  we  dropt  in  the  long  grass 
On  such  a happy  summer-afternoon 
When  last  we  read  it  with  a loving  friend, 

And  find  in  autumn  when  the  friend  is  gone, 

The  grass  cut  short,  the  weather  changed,  too  late, 
And  stare  at,  as  at  something  wonderful 
For  sorrow, — thinking  how  two  hands  before 
Had  held  up  what  is  left  to  only  one, 

And  how  we  smiled  when  such  a vehement  nail 
Impressed  the  tiny  dint  here  which  presents 
This  verse  in  fire  for  ever.  Tenderly 
And  mournfully  I lived.  I knew  the  birds 
And  insects, — which  looked  fathered  by  the  flowers 
And  emulous  of  their  hues  : I recognised 
The  moths,  with  that  great  overpoise  of  wings 
Which  make  a mystery  of  them  how  at  all 
They  can  stop  flying : butterflies,  that  bear 
Upon  their  blue  wings  such  red  embers  round, 

They  seem  to  scorch  the  blue  air  into  holes 
Each  flight  they  take  : and  fire-flies,  that  suspire 
In  short  soft  lapses  of  transported  flame 
Across  the  tingling  Dark,  while  overhead 
The  constant  and  inviolable  stars 
Outburn  those  light-of-love  : melodious  owls, 

(If  music  had  but  one  note  and  was  sad, 

’T  would  sound  just  so)  ; and  all  the  silent  swirl 


AUEOKA  LEIGH. 


313 


Of  bats  that  seem  to  follow  in  the  air 
Some  grand  circumference  of  a shadowy  dome 
To  which  we  are  blind  : and  then  the  nightingales, 
Which  pluck  our  heart  across  a garden-wall 
(When  walking  in  the  town)  and  carry  it 
So  high  into  the  bowery  almond-trees 
We  tremble  and  are  afraid,  and  feel  as  if 
The  golden  flood  of  moonlight  unaware 
Dissolved  the  pillars  of  the  steady  earth 
And  made  it  less  substantial.  And  I knew 
The  harmless  opal  snakes,  the  large-mouthed  frogs 
(Those  noisy  vaunters  of  their  shallow  streams)  ; 

And  lizards,  the  green  lightnings  of  the  wall, 

Which,  if  you  sit  down  quiet,  nor  sigh  loud, 

Will  flatter  you  and  take  you  for  a stone, 

And  flash  familiarly  about  your  feet 

With  such  prodigious  eyes  in  such  small  heads ! — 

I knew  them,  (though  they  had  somewhat  dwindled 
from 

My  childish  imagery,)  and  kept  in  mind 
How  last  I sate  among  them  equally, 

In  fellowship  and  mateship,  as  a child 
Feels  equal  still  toward  insect,  beast,  and  bird, 

Before  the  Adam  in  him  has  foregone 
All  privilege  of  Eden, — making  friends 
And  talk  with  such  a bird  or  such  a goat, 

And  buying  many  a two-inch-wide  rush-cage 
To  let  out  the  caged  cricket  on  a tree, 

Saying,  4 Oh,  my  dear  grillino,  were  you  cramped  ? 

And  are  you  happy  with  the  ilex-leaves  ? 


314 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


And  do  you  love  me  who  have  let  you  go  ? 

Say  yes  in  singing,  and  I ’ll  understand/ 

But  now  the  creatures  all  seemed  farther  off, 

No  longer  mine,  nor  like  me,  only  there , 

A gulph  between  us.  I could  yearn  indeed, 

Like  other  rich  men,  for  a drop  of  dew 
To  cool  this  heat, — a drop  of  the  early  dew, 

The  irrecoverable  child-innocence 
(Before  the  heart  took  fire  and  withered  life) 

When  childhood  might  pair  equally  with  birds ; 

But  now  . . the  birds  were  grown  too  proud  for  us  ! 
Alas,  the  very  sun  forbids  the  dew. 

And  I,  I had  come  back  to  an  empty  nest, 

Which  every  bird ’s  too  wise  for.  How  I heard 
My  father’s  step  on  that  deserted  ground, 

His  voice  along  that  silence,  as  he  told 
The  names  of  bird  and  insect,  tree  and  flower, 

And  all  the  presentations  of  the  stars 
Across  Yaldarno,  interposing  still 
4 My  child,’ I * *  4 my  child/  When  fathers  say  4 my  child,’ 
’T  is  easier  to  conceive  the  universe, 

And  life’s  transitions  down  the  steps  of  law. 

I rode  once  to  the  little  mountain-house 

As  fast  as  if  to  find  my  father  there, 

But,  when  in  sight  of ’t,  within  fifty  yards, 

I dropped  my  horse’s  bridle  on  his  neck 
And  paused  upon  his  flank.  The  house’s  front 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


315 


Was  cased  with  lingots  of  ripe  Indian  corn 
In  tesselated  order  and  device 
Of  golden  patterns,  not  a stone  of  wall 
Uncovered, — not  an  inch  of  room  to  grow 
A vine-leaf.  The  old  porch  had  disappeared  ; 

And  right  in  the  open  doorway  sate  a girl 
At  plaiting  straws,  her  black  hair  strained  away 
To  a scarlet  kerchief  caught  beneath  her  chin 
In  Tuscan  fashion, — her  full  ebon  eyes, 

Which  looked  too  heavy  to  be  lifted  so, 

Still  dropt  and  lifted  toward  the  mulberry-tree 
On  which  the  lads  were  busy  with  their  staves 
In  shout  and  laughter,  stripping  every  bough 
As  bare  as  winter,  of  those  summer  leaves 
My  father  had  not  changed  for  all  the  silk 
In  which  the  ngly  silkworms  hide  themselves. 
Enough.  My  horse  recoiled  before  my  heart ; 

I turned  the  rein  abruptly.  Back  we  went 
As  fast,  to  Florence. 

That  was  trial  enough 
Of  graves.  I would  not  visit,  if  I could, 

My  father’s,  or  my  mother’s  any  more, 

To  see  if  stone-cutter  or  lichen  beat 
So  early  in  the  race,  or  throw  my  flowers, 

Which  could  not  out-smell  heaven  or  sweeten  earth. 
They  live  too  far  above,  that  I should  look 
So  far  below  to  find  them : let  me  think 
That  rather  they  are  visiting  my  grave, 

Called  life  here,  (undeveloped  yet  to  life) 

And  that  they  drop  upon  me,  now  and  then, 


316 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


For  token  or  for  solace,  some  small  weed 
Least  odorous  of  the  growths  of  paradise, 

To  spare  such  pungent  scents  as  kill  with  joy. 

My  old  Assunta,  too,  was  dead,  was  dead — 

0 land  of  all  men’s  past ! for  me  alone, 

It  would  not  mix  its  tenses.  I was  past, 

It  seemed,  like  others, — only  not  in  heaven. 

And  many  a Tuscan  eve  I wandered  down 
The  cypress  alley  like  a restless  ghost 
That  tries  its  feeble  ineffectual  breath 
Upon  its  own  charred  funeral-brands  put  out 
Too  soon,  where  black  and  stiff  stood  up  the  trees 
Against  the  broad  vermilion  of  the  skies. 

Such  skies ! — all  clouds  abolished  in  a sweep 
Of  God’s  skirt,  with  a dazzle  to  ghosts  and  men, 
As  down  I went,  saluting  on  the  bridge 
The  hem  of  such  before ’t  was  caught  away 
Beyond  the  peaks  of  Lucca.  Underneath, 

The  river,  just  escaping  from  the  weight 
Of  that  intolerable  glory,  ran 
In  acquiescent  shadow  murmurously  ; 

While,  up  beside  it,  streamed  the  festa-folk 
With  fellow-murmurs  from  their  feet  and  fans, 
And  issimo  and  ino  and  sweet  poise 
Of  vowels  in  their  pleasant  scandalous  talk  ; 
Beturning  from  the  grand-duke’s  dairy-farm 
Before  the  trees  grew  dangerous  at  eight, 

(For,  ‘ trust  no  tree  by  moonlight,’  Tuscans  say) 
To  eat  their  ice  at  Donay’s  tenderly, — 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


317 


Each  lovely  lady  close  to  a cavalier 

Who  holds  her  dear  fan  while  she  feeds  her  smile 

On  meditative  spoonfuls  of  vanille 

And  listens  to  his  hot-breathed  vows  of  love 

Enough  to  thaw  her  cream  and  scorch  his  beard. 

’T  was  little  matter.  I could  pass  them  by 
Indifferently,  not  fearing  to  be  known. 

N o danger  of  being  wrecked  upon  a friend, 

And  forced  to  take  an  iceberg  for  an  isle ! 

The  very  English,  here,  must  wait  and  learn 
To  hang  the  cobweb  of  their  gossip  out 
To  catch  a fly.  I ’m  happy.  It ’s  sublime, 

This  perfect  solitude  of  foreign  lands  ! 

To  be,  as  if  you  had  not  been  till  then, 

And  were  then,  simply  that  you  chose  to  be : 

To  spring  up,  not  be  brought  forth  from  the  ground, 
Like  grasshoppers  at  Athens,  and  skip  thrice 
Before  a woman  makes  a pounce  on  you 
And  plants  you  in  her  hair ! — possess,  yourself, 

A new  world  all  alive  with  creatures  new, 

New  sun,  new  moon,  new  flowers,  new  people — ah, 
And  be  possessed  by  none  of  them ! no  right 
In  one,  to  call  your  name,  inquire  your  where, 

Or  what  you  think  of  Mister  Some-one’s  book, 

Or  Mister  Other’s  marriage  or  decease, 

Or  how ’s  the  headache  which  you  had  last  week, 

Or  why  you  look  so  pale  still,  since  it ’s  gone  ? 

— Such  most  surprising  riddance  of  one’s  life 
Comes  next  one’s  death  ; ’t  is  disembodiment 


318 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


Without  the  pang.  I marvel,  people  choose 
To  stand  stock-still  like  fakirs,  till  the  moss 
Grows  on  them  and  they  cry  out,  self-admired, 

‘ How  verdant  and  how  virtuous  !’  Well,  1 ’ m glad  : 
Or  should  he,  if  grown  foreign  to  myself 
As  surely  as  to  others. 

Musing  so, 

I walked  the  narrow  unrecognising  streets, 

Where  many  a palace-front  peers  gloomily 
Through  stony  vizors  iron-barred,  (prepared 
Alike,  should  foe  or  lover  pass  that  way, 

For  guest  or  victim)  and  came  wandering  out 
Upon  the  churches  with  mild  open  doors 
And  plaintive  wail  of  vespers,  where  a few, 

Those  chiefly  women,  sprinkled  round  in  blots 
Upon  the  dusky  pavement,  knelt  and  prayed 
Toward  the  altar’s  silver  glory.  Oft  a ray 
(I  liked  to  sit  and  watch)  would  tremble  out, 

Just  touch  some  face  more  lifted,  more  in  need, 

(Of  course  a woman’s) — while  I dreamed  a tale 
To  fit  its  fortunes.  There  was  one  who  looked 
As  if  the  earth  had  suddenly  grown  too  large 
For  such  a little  humpbacked  thing  as  she ; 

The  pitiful  black  kerchief  round  her  neck 
Sole  proof  she  had  had  a mother.  One,  again, 

Looked  sick  for  love, — seemed  praying  some  soft  saint 
To  put  more  virtue  in  the  new  fine  scarf 
She  spent  a fortnight’s  meals  on,  yesterday, 

That  cruel  Gigi  might  return  his  eyes 
From  Giuliana.  There  was  one,  so  old, 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


319 


So  old,  to  kneel  grew  easier  than  to  stand, — 

So  solitary,  she  accepts  at  last 
Our  Lady  for  her  gossip,  and  frets  on 
Against  the  sinful  world  which  goes  its  rounds 
In  marrying  and  being  married,  just  the  same 
As  when ’t  was  almost  good  and  had  the  right, 

(Her  Gian  alive,  and  she  herself  eighteen). 

4 And  yet,  now  even,  if  Madonna  willed, 

She ’d  win  a tern  in  Thursday’s  lottery 

And  better  all  things.  Did  she  dream  for  nought, 

That,  boiling  cabbage  for  the  fast-day’s  soup, 

It  smelt  like  blessed  entrails  ? such  a dream 
For  nought  ? would  sweetest  Mary  cheat  her  so, 

And  lose  that  certain  candle,  straight  and  white 
As  any  fair  grand-duchess  in  her  teens, 

Which  otherwise  should  flare  here  in  a week  ? 

Benigna  sis , thou  beauteous  Queen  of  heaven  !’ 

I sate  there  musing,  and  imagining 
Such  utterance  from  such  faces  : poor  blind  souls 
That  writhe  toward  heaven  along  the  devil’s  trail, — 
Who  knows,  I thought,  but  He  may  stretch  his  hand 
And  pick  them  up  ? ’t  is  written  in  the  Book 
He  heareth  the  young  ravens  when  they  cry, 

And  yet  they  cry  for  carrion. — 0 my  God, 

And  we,  who  make  excuses  for  the  rest, 

W e do  it  in  our  measure.  Then  1 knelt, 

And  dropped  my  head  upon  the  pavement  too, 

And  prayed,  since  I was  foolish  in  desire 
Like  other  creatures,  craving  offal-food, 


320 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


That  He  would  stop  his  ears  to  what  I said, 

And  only  listen  to  the  run  and  heat 
Of  this  poor,  passionate,  helpless  blood — 

And  then 

I lay,  and  spoke  not : but  He  heard  in  heaven. 

So  many  Tuscan  evenings  passed  the  same. 

I could  not  lose  a sunset  on  the  bridge, 

And  would  not  miss  a vigil  in  the  church, 

And  liked  to  mingle  with  the  out-door  crowd 
So  strange  and  gay  and  ignorant  of  my  face, 

For  men  you  know  not,  are  as  good  as  trees. 

And  only  once,  at  the  Santissima, 

I almost  chanced  upon  a man  I knew, 

Sir  Blaise  Delorme.  He  saw  me  certainly, 

And  somewhat  hurried,  as  he  crossed  himself, 

The  smoothness  of  the  action, — then  half  bowed, 
But  only  half,  and  merely  to  my  shade, 

I slipped  so  quick  behind  the  prophyry  plinth 
And  left  him  dubious  if ’t  was  really  I 
Or  peradventure  Satan’s  usual  trick 
To  keep  a mounting  saint  uncanonised. 

But  he  was  safe  for  that  time,  and  I too  ; 

The  argent  angels  in  the  altar-flare 

Absorbed  his  soul  next  moment.  The  good  man ! 

In  England  we  were  scarce  acquaintances, 

That  here  in  Florence  he  should  keep  my  thought 
Beyond  the  image  on  his  eye,  which  came 
And  went : and  yet  his  thought  disturbed  my  life  : 
For,  after  that,  I oftener  sat  at  home 


AUKORA  LEIGH. 


321 


On  evenings,  watching  how  they  fined  themselves 
With  gradual  conscience  to  a perfect  night, 

Until  the  moon,  diminished  to  a curve, 

Lay  out  there  like  a sickle  for  His  hand 
Who  cometh  down  at  last  to  reap  the  earth. 

At  such  times,  ended  seemed  my  trade  of  verse ; 

I feared  to  jingle  bells  upon  my  robe 
Before  the  four-faced  silent  cherubim  : 

With  God  so  near  me,  could  I sing  of  God? 

I did  not  write,  nor  read,  nor  even  think, 

But  sate  absorbed  amid  the  quickening  glooms, 
Most  like  some  passive  broken  lump  of  salt 
Dropt  in  by  chance  to  a bowl  of  oenomel, 

To  spoil  the  drink  a little  and  lose  itself, 
Dissolving  slowly,  slowly,  until  lost. 


Y 


( 323  ) 


EIGHTH  BOOK. 


One  eve  it  happened,  when  I sate  alone, 

Alone,  npon  the  terrace  of  my  tower, 

A hook  npon  my  knees  to  counterfeit 
The  reading  that  I never  read  at  all, 

While  Marian,  in  the  garden  down  below, 

Knelt  by  the  fountain  I could  just  hear  thrill 
The  drowsy  silence  of  the  exhausted  day, 

And  peeled  a new  fig  from  that  purple  heap 
In  the  grass  beside  her,  turning  out  the  red 
To  feed  her  eager  child  (who  sucked  at  it 
With  vehement  lips  across  a gap  of  air 
As  he  stood  opposite,  face  and  curls  a-flame 
With  that  last  sun-ray,  crying,  4 give  me,  give,’ 
And  stamping  with  imperious  baby-feet, 

We  Jre  all  born  princes) — something  startled  me, — 
The  laugh  of  sad  and  innocent  souls,  that  breaks 
Abruptly,  as  if  frightened  at  itself. 

’T  was  Marian  laughed.  I saw  her  glance  above 
In  sudden  shame  that  I should  hear  her  laugh, 

And  straightway  dropped  my  eyes  upon  my  book, 
And  knew,  the  first  time,  ’t  was  Boccaccio's  tale, 


324 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


The  Falcon’s,  of  the  lover  who  for  love 
Destroyed  the  best  that  loved  him.  Some  of  us 
Do  it  still,  and  then  we  sit  and  laugh  no  more. 

Laugh  you,  sweet  Marian, — you ’ve  the  right  to  laugh, 
Since  God  himself  is  for  you,  and  a child ! 

For  me  there ’s  somewhat  less, — and  so  I sigh. 

The  heavens  were  making  room  to  hold  the  night, 
The  sevenfold  heavens  unfolding  all  their  gates 
To  let  the  stars  out  slowly  (prophesied 
In  close-approaching  advent,  not  discerned), 

While  still  the  cue-owls  from  the  cypresses 
Of  the  Poggio  called  and  counted  every  pulse 
Of  the  skyey  palpitation.  Gradually 
The  purple  and  transparent  shadows  slow 
Had  filled  up  the  whole  valley  to  the  brim, 

And  flooded  all  the  city,  which  you  saw 
As  some  drowned  city  in  some  enchanted  sea, 

Cut  off  from  nature, — drawing  you  who  gaze, 

With  passionate  desire,  to  leap  and  plunge 
And  find  a sea-king  with  a voice  of  waves, 

And  treacherous  soft  eyes,  and  slippery  locks 
You  cannot  kiss  but  you  shall  bring  away 
Their  salt  upon  your  lips.  The  duomo-bell 
Strikes  ten,  as  if  it  struck  ten  fathoms  down, 

So  deep  ; and  twenty  churches  answer  it 
The  same,  with  twenty  various  instances. 

Some  gaslights  tremble  along  squares  and  streets  ; 

The  Pitti’s  palace-front  is  drawn  in  fire ; 

And,  past  the  quays,  Maria  Novella  Place, 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


325 


In  which  the  mystic  obelisks  stand  up 
Triangular,  pyramidal,  each  based 
Upon  its  four-square  brazen  tortoises, 

To  guard  that  fair  church,  Buonarroti’s  Bride, 
That  stares  out  from  her  large  blind  dial-eyes, 
(Her  quadrant  and  armillary  dials,  black 
With  rhythms  of  many  suns  and  moons)  in  vain 
Inquiry  for  so  rich  a soul  as  his. 

Methinks  I have  plunged,  I see  it  all  so  clear  . . . 
And,  0 my  heart,  . . . the  sea-king ! 


In  my  ears 

The  sound  of  waters.  There  he  stood,  my  king ! 

I felt  him,  rather  than  beheld  him.  Up 
I rose,  as  if  he  were  my  king  indeed. 

And  then  sate  down,  in  trouble  at  myself, 

And  struggling  for  my  woman’s  empery. 

’T  is  pitiful ; but  women  are  so  made : 

We  ’ll  die  for  you  perhaps, — ’t  is  probable  ; 

But  we  ’ll  not  spare  you  an  inch  of  our  full  height : 
We  ’ll  have  our  whole  just  stature, — five  feet  four, 
Though  laid  out  in  our  coffins  : pitiful. 

— ‘ You,  Komney ! — —Lady  Waldemar  is  here  ?’ 

He  answered  in  a voice  which  was  not  his. 

‘ I have  her  letter ; you  shall  read  it  soon. 

But  first,  I must  be  heard  a little,  I, 

Who  have  waited  long  and  travelled  far  for  that. 
Although  you  thought  to  have  shut  a tedious  book 


326 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


And  farewell.  Ah,  you  dog-eared  such  a page, 

And  here  you  find  me.’ 

Did  he  touch  my  hand, 

Or  but  my  sleeve  ? I trembled,  hand  and  foot, — 

He  must  have  touched  me. — 4 Will  you  sit  ?’  I asked, 
And  motioned  to  a chair  ; but  down  he  sate, 

A little  slowly,  as  a man  in  doubt. 

Upon  the  couch  beside  me, — couch  and  chair 
Being  wheeled  upon  the  terrace. 

4 You  are  come, 

My  cousin  Romney? — this  is  wonderful. 

But  all  is  wonder  on  such  summer-nights ; 

And  nothing  should  surprise  us  any  more, 

Who  see  that  miracle  of  stars.  Behold.’ 


I signed  above,  where  all  the  stars  were  out, 

As  if  an  urgent  heat  had  started  there 
A secret  writing  from  a sombre  page, 

A blank,  last  moment,  crowded  suddenly 
With  hurrying  splendours. 

4 Then  you  do  not  know  ’ — . 


He  murmured. 


4 Yes,  I know,’  I said,  4 1 know. 
I had  the  news  from  Vincent  Carrington. 

And  yet  I did  not  think  you ’d  leave  the  work 
In  England,  for  so  much  even, — though  of  course 
You  ’ll  make  a work-day  of  your  holiday, 

And  turn  it  to  our  Tuscan  people’s  use, — 

Who  much  need  helping  since  the  Austrian  boar 
(So  bold  to  cross  the  Alp  to  Lombardy 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


327 


And  dash  his  brute  front  unabashed  against 
The  steep  snow-bosses  of  that  shield  of  God 
Who  soon  shall  rise  in  wrath  and  shake  it  clear,) 
Came  hither  also,  raking  up  our  grape 
And  olive-gardens  with  his  tyrannous  tusk, 

And  rolling  on  our  maize  with  all  his  swine.’ 

4 You  had  the  news  from  Vincent  Carrington,’ 

He  echoed, — picking  up  the  phrase  beyond, 

As  if  he  knew  the  rest  was  merely  talk 
To  fill  a gap  and  keep  out  a strong  wind ; 

4 You  had,  then,  Vincent’s  personal  news?’ 

4 His  own,’ 

I answered.  4 All  that  ruined  world  of  yours 
Seems  crumbling  into  marriage.  Carrington 
Has  chosen  wisely.’ 

4 Do  you  take  it  so  ?’ 

He  cried,  4 and  is  it  possible  at  last  ’ . . 

He  paused  there, — and  then,  inward  to  himself, 

4 Too  much  at  last,  too  late  ! — yet  certainly  ’ . . 

(And  there  his  voice  swayed  as  an  Alpine  plank 
That  feels  a passionate  torrent  underneath) 

4 The  knowledge,  had  I known  it  first  or  last, 

Could  scarce  have  changed  the  actual  case  for  me . 

And  best  for  her  at  this  time.’ 

Nay,  I thought, 

He  loves  Kate  Ward,  it  seems,  now,  like  a man, 
Because  he  has  married  Lady  Waldemar ! 

Ah,  Vincent’s  letter  said  how  Leigh  was  moved 
To  hear  that  Vincent  was  betrothed  to  Kate. 


828 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


With  what  cracked  pitchers  go  we  to  deep  wells 
In  this  world  ! Then  I spoke, — ‘ I did  not  think, 
My  cousin,  you  had  ever  known  Kate  Ward/ 

4 In  fact  I never  knew  her.  ’T  is  enough 
That  Vincent  did,  and  therefore  chose  his  wife 
For  other  reasons  than  those  topaz  eyes 
We ’ve  heard  of.  Not  to  undervalue  them, 

For  all  that.  One  takes  up  the  world  with  eyes/ 

— Including  Eomney  Leigh,  I thought  again, 
Albeit  he  knows  them  only  by  repute. 

How  vile  must  all  men  be,  since  he  ’ s a man. 

His  deep  pathetic  voice,  as  if  he  guessed 
I did  not  surely  love  him,  took  the  word ; 

‘ You  never  got  a letter  from  Lord  Howe 
A month  back,  dear  Aurora  ?’ 


‘None,’  I said. 

‘ I felt  it  was  so/  he  replied  : ‘ yet,  strange  ! 

Sir  Blaise  Delorme  has  passed  through  Florence  ?’ 

‘Ay, 

By  chance  I saw  him  in  Our  Lady’s  church, 

(I  saw  him,  mark  you,  but  he  saw  not  me) 

Clean- washed  in  holy  water  from  the  count 
Of  things  terrestrial, — letters,  and  the  rest ; 

He  had  crossed  us  out  together  with  his  sins. 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


Ay,  strange ; but  only  strange  that  good  Lord  Howe 
Preferred  him  to  the  post  because  of  pauls. 

For  me  I ’m  sworn  to  never  trust  a man — 

At  least  with  letters.’ 

‘ There  were  facts  to  tell, 
To  smooth  with  eye  and  accent.  Howe  supposed  . 
Well,  well,  no  matter ! there  was  dubious  need; 

You  heard  the  news  from  Vincent  Carrington. 

And  yet  perhaps  you  had  been  startled  less 
To  see  me,  dear  Aurora,  if  you  had  read 
That  letter.’ 

— Now  he  sets  me  down  as  vexed. 

I think  I ’ve  draped  myself  in  woman’s  pride 
To  a perfect  purpose.  Oh,  I ’m  vexed,  it  seems  ! 

My  friend  Lord  Howe  deputes  his  friend  Sir  Blaise 
To  break  as  softly  as  a sparrow’s  egg 
That  lets  a bird  tenderly,  the  news 
Of  Romney’s  marriage  to  a oertain  saint ; 

To  smooth  with  eye  and  accent, — indicate 

His  possible  presence.  Excellently  well 

You ’ve  played  your  part,  my  Lady  Waldemar, — 

As  I ’ve  played  mine. 

‘ Dear  Romney,’  I began, 

‘ You  did  not  use,  of  old,  to  be  so  like 
A Greek  king  coming  from  a taken  Troy 
’T  was  needful  that  precursors  spread  your  path 
With  three-piled  carpets,  to  receive  your  foot 
And  dull  the  sound  of  ’t.  For  myself,  be  sure, 
Although  it  frankly  grinds  the  gravel  here, 


330 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


I still  can  bear  it.  Yet  I ’m  sorry  too 
To  lose  tbis  famous  letter,  which  Sir  Blaise 
Has  twisted  to  a lighter  absently 
To  fire  some  holy  taper : dear  Lord  Howe 
Writes  letters  good  for  all  things  but  to  lose  ; 

And  many  a flower  of  London  gossipry 
Has  dropt  wherever  such  a stem  broke  off. 

Of  course  I feel  that,  lonely  among  my  vines, 

Where  nothing ’s  talked  of,  save  the  blight  again, 
And  no  more  Chianti ! Still  the  letter’s  use 
As  preparation  * . . . . Did  I start  indeed? 

Last  night  I started  at  a cockchafer, 

And  shook  a half-hour  after.  Have  you  learnt 
No  more  of  women,  ’spite  of  privilege, 

Than  still  to  take  account  too  seriously 
Of  such  weak  flutterings  ? Why,  we  like  it,  sir, 

We  get  our  powers  and  our  effects  that  way : 

The  trees  stand  stiff  and  still  at  time  of  frost, 

If  no  wind  tears  them ; but,  let  summer  come, 

When  trees  are  happy, — and  a breath  avails 
To  set  them  trembling  through  a million  leaves 
In  luxury  of  emotion.  Something  less 
It  takes  to  move  a woman : let  her  start 
And  shake  at  pleasure, — nor  conclude  at  yours, 

The  winter ’s  bitter, — but  the  summer ’s  green.’ 

He  answered,  - Be  the  summer  ever  green 
With  you,  Aurora ! — though  you  sweep  your  sex 
With  somewhat  bitter  gusts  from  where  you  live 
Above  them, — whirling  downward  from  your  heights 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


331 


Your  very  own  pine-cones,  in  a grand  disdain 
Of  the  lowland  burrs  with  which  you  scatter  them. 

So  high  and  cold  to  others  and  yourself, 

A little  less  to  Eomney  were  unjust, 

And  thus,  I would  not  have  you.  Let  it  pass  : 

I feel  content  so.  You  can  bear  indeed 
My  sudden  step  beside  you  : but  for  me, 

’T  would  move  me  sore  to  hear  your  softened  voice,  — 
Aurora’s  voice, — if  softened  unaware 
In  pity  of  what  I am.’ 

Ah  friend,  I thought, 

As  husband  of  the  Lady  Waldemar 
You  ’re  granted  very  sorely  pitiable ! 

And  yet  Aurora  Leigh  must  guard  her  voice 
From  softening  in  the  pity  of  your  case, 

As  if  from  lie  or  licence.  Certainly 
We  ’ll  soak  up  all  the  slush  and  soil  of  life 
With  softened  voices,  ere  we  come  to  you . 

At  which  I interrupted  my  own  thought 
And  spoke  out  calmly.  6 Let  us  ponder,  friend 
Whate’er  our  state  we  must  have  made  it  first ; 

And  though  the  thing  displease  us,  ay,  perhaps 
Displease  us  warrantably,  never  doubt 
That  other  states,  thought  possible  once,  and  then 
Dejected  by  the  instinct  of  our  lives, 

If  then  adopted  had  displeased  us  more 

Than  this  in  which  the  choice,  the  will,  the  love, 

Has  stamped  the  honour  of  a patent  act 

From  henceforth.  What  we  choose  may  not  be  good, 


332 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


But,  that  we  choose  it,  proves  it  good  for  us 

Potentially,  fantastically,  now 

Or  last  year,  rather  than  a thing  we  saw, 

And  saw  no  need  for  choosing.  Moths  will  bum 
Their  wings, — which  proves  that  light  is  good  for  moths, 
Who  else  had  flown  not  where  they  agonise.’ 

‘ Ay,  light  is  good,’  he  echoed,  and  there  paused ; 

And  then  abruptly,  . . ‘ Marian.  Marian ’s  well  ?’ 

I bowed  my  head  but  found  no  word.  ’T  was  hard 

To  speak  of  her  to  Lady  Waldemar’s 

New  husband.  How  much  did  he  know,  at  last  ? 

How  much  ? how  little  ? He  would  take  no  sign, 

But  straight  repeated, — ‘ Marian.  Is  she  well  ?’ 

‘ She ’s  well,’  I answered. 


She  was  there  in  sight 
An  hour  back,  but  the  night  had  drawn  her  home, 
Where  still  I heard  her  in  an  upper  room, 

Her  low  voice  singing  to  the  child  in  bed, 

Who  restless  with  the  summer-heat  and  play 
And  slumber  snatched  at  noon,  was  long  sometimes 
In  falling  off,  and  took  a score  of  songs 
And  mother-hushes  ere  she  saw  him  sound. 

4 She ’s  well/  I answered. 


‘ Here  ?’  he  asked. 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


‘Yes,  here.1 

He  stopped  and  sighed.  ‘ That  shall  be  presently, 

But  now  this  must  be.  I have  words  to  say, 

And  would  be  alone  to  say  them,  I with  you, 

And  no  third  troubling.’ 

‘ Speak  then,’  I returned, 

‘ She  will  not  vex  you.’ 


At  which,  suddenly 

He  turned  his  face  upon  me  with  its  smile 
As  if  to  crush  me.  * I have  read  your  book, 

Aurora.’ 

‘ You  have  read  it,’  I replied, 

‘ And  I have  writ  it, — we  have  done  with  it. 

And  now  the  rest  ?’ 

‘ The  rest  is  like  the  first,’ 

He  answered, — ‘ for  the  book  is  in  my  heart, 

Lives  in  me,  wakes  in  me,  and  dreams  in  me : 

My  daily  bread  tastes  of  it, — and  my  wine 
Which  has  no  smack  of  it,  I pour  it  out, 

It  seems  unnatural  drinking.’ 

Bitterly 

I took  the  word  up  ; ‘ Never  waste  your  wine. 

The  book  lived  in  me  ere  it  lived  in  you  ; 

I know  it  closer  than  another  does, 

And  how  it ’s  foolish,  feeble,  and  afraid, 

And  all  unworthy  so  much  compliment. 

Beseech  you,  keep  your  wine, — and,  when  you  drink, 


334 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


Still  wish  some  happier  fortune  to  a friend, 

Than  even  to  have  written  a far  better  book.’ 

He  answered  gently,  ‘ That  is  consequent : 

The  poet  looks  beyond  the  book  he  has  made, 

Or  else  he  had  not  made  it.  If  a man 
Could  make  a man,  he ’d  henceforth  be  a god 
In  feeling  what  a little  thing  is  man  : 

It  is  not  my  case.  And  this  special  book, 

I did  not  make  it,  to  make  light  of  it : 

It  stands  above  my  knowledge,  draws  me  up  ; 

’T  is  high  to  me.  It  may  be  that  the  book 
Is  not  so  high,  but  I so  low,  instead ; 

Still  high  to  me.  I mean  no  compliment : 

1 will  not  say  there  are  not,  young  or  old, 

Male  writers,  ay,  or  female,  let  it  pass, 

Who  ’ll  write  us  richer  and  completer  books. 

A man  may  love  a woman  perfectly, 

And  yet  by  no  means  ignorantly  maintain 
A thousand  women  have  not  larger  eyes  : 

Enough  that  she  alone  has  looked  at  him 
With  eyes  that,  large  or  small,  have  won  his  soul. 
And  so,  this  book,  Aurora, — so,  your  book.’ 

4 Alas,’  I answered,  4 * is  it  so,  indeed?’ 

And  then  was  silent. 


4 Is  it  so,  indeed,’ 

He  echoed,  6 that  alas  is  all  your  word  ?’ 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


335 


I said, — 4 1 ’m  thinking  of  a far-off  June, 

When  yon  and  I,  upon  my  birthday  once, 

Discoursed  of  life  and  art,  with  both  untried. 

I ’m  thinking,  Eomney,  how  ’t  was  morning  then, 

And  now ’t  is  night/ 

4 And  now,’  he  said,  4 ’t  is  night/ 

4 I ’m  thinking/  I resumed,  4 1 is  somewhat  sad, 

That  if  I had  known,  that  morning  in  the  dew, 

My  cousin  Romney  would  have  said  such  words 
On  such  a night  at  close  of  many  years, 

In  speaking  of  a future  book  of  mine, 

It  would  have  pleased  me  better  as  a hope, 

Than  as  an  actual  grace  it  can  at  all : 

That ’s  sad,  I ’m  thinking/ 

4 Ay/  he  said,  4 ’t  is  night/ 

4 And  there/  I added  lightly,  4 are  the  stars ! 

And  here,  we  11  talk  of  stars  and  not  of  books/ 

* 

4 You  have  the  stars/  he  murmured, — 4 it  is  well : 

Be  like  them ! shine,  Aurora,  on  my  dark, 

Though  high  and  cold  and  only  like  a star, 

And  for  this  short  night  only, — you,  who  keep 
The  same  Aurora  of  the  bright  J une  day 
That  withered  up  the  flowers  before  my  face, 

And  turned  me  from  the  garden  evermore 
Because  I was  not  worthy.  Oh,  deserved, 

Deserved ! that  I,  who  verily  had  not  learnt 


336 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


God’s  lesson  half,  attaining  as  a dunce 
To  obliterate  good  words  with  fractious  thumbs 
And  cheat  myself  of  the  context, — I should  push 
Aside,  with  male  ferocious  impudence, 

The  world’s  Aurora  who  had  conned  her  part 
On  the  other  side  the  leaf ! ignore  her  so, 

Because  she  was  a woman  and  a queen, 

And  had  no  beard  to  bristle  through  her  song, 

My  teacher,  who  has  taught  me  with  a book, 

My  Miriam,  whose  sweet  mouth,  when  nearly  drowned 
I still  heard  singing  on  the  shore ! Deserved, 

That  here  I should  look  up  unto  the  stars 
And  miss  the  glory  ’ . . 

4 Can  I understand  ?’ 

I broke  in.  4 You  speak  wildly,  Romney  Leigh, 

Or  I hear  wildly.  In  that  morning-time 
We  recollect,  the  roses  were  too  red, 

The  trees  too  green,  reproach  too  natural 
If  one  should  see  not  what  the  other  saw  : 

And  now,  it 's  night,  remember ; we  have  shades 
In  place  of  colours  ; we  are  now  grown  oold, 

And  old,  my  cousin  Romney.  Pardon  me, — 

I ’m  very  happy  that  you  like  my  book, 

And  very  sorry  that  I quoted  back 
A years’  birthday.  ’T  was  so  mad  a thing 
In  any  woman,  I scarce  marvel  much 
You  took  it  for  a venturous  piece  of  spite, 

Provoking  such  excuses  as  indeed 
I cannot  call  you  slack  in.’ 


4 Understand,’ 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


337 


He  answered  sadly,  c something,  if  bnt  so. 

This  night  is  softer  than  an  English  day, 

And  men  may  well  come  hither  when  they  Te  sick, 
To  draw  in  easier  breath  from  larger  air. 

JT  is  thns  with  me ; I come  to  you, — to  you, 

My  Italy  of  women,  just  to  breathe 
My  soul  out  once  before  you,  ere  I go, 

As  humble  as  God  makes  me  at  the  last 
(I  thank  Him),  quite  out  of  the  way  of  men 
And  yours,  Aurora, — like  a punished  child, 

His  cheeks  all  blurred  with  tears  and  naughtiness, 
To  silence  in  a corner.  I am  come 
To  speak,  beloved  ’ . . 

‘ Wisely,  cousin  Leigh, 

And  worthily  of  us  both ! ’ 

4 Yes,  worthily ; 

For  this  time  I must  speak  out  and  confess 
That  I,  so  truculent  in  assumption  once, 

So  absolute  in  dogma,  proud  in  aim, 

And  fierce  in  expectation, — I,  who  felt 

The  whole  world  tugging  at  my  skirts  for  help, 

As  if  no  other  man  than  I,  could  pull, 

Nor  woman,  but  I led  her  by  the  hand, 

Nor  cloth  hold,  but  I had  it  in  my  coat, 

Do  know  myself  to-night  for  what  I was 
On  that  June-day,  Aurora.  Poor  bright  day, 
Which  meant  the  best  . . a woman  and  a rose, 

And  which  I smote  upon  the  cheek  with  words 
Until  it  turned  and  rent  me ! Young  you  were, 
That  birthday,  poet,  but  you  talked  the  right : 


338 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


While  I,  . . I built  up  follies  like  a wall 
To  intercept  the  sunshine  and  your  face. 

Your  face  ! that ’s  worse.’ 

‘ Speak  wisely,  cousin  Leigh 

4 Yes,  wisely,  dear  Aurora,  though  too  late : 

But  then,  not  wisely.  I was  heavy  then, 

And  stupid,  and  distracted  with  the  cries 
Of  tortured  prisoners  in  the  polished  brass 
Of  that  Phalarian  bull,  society, 

Which  seems  to  bellow  bravely  like  ten  bulls 
But,  if  you  listen,  moans  and  cries  instead 
Despairingly,  like  victims  tossed  and  gored 
And  trampled  by  their  hoofs.  I heard  the  cries 
Too  close  : I could  not  hear  the  angels  lift 
A fold  of  rustling  air,  nor  what  they  said 
To  help  my  pity.  I beheld  the  world 
As  one  great  famishing  carnivorous  mouth, — 

A huge,  deserted,  callow,  blind  bird  Thing, 

With  piteous  open  beak  that  hurt  my  heart, 

Till  down  upon  the  filthy  ground  I dropped, 

And  tore  the  violets  up  to  get  the  worms. 

Worms,  worms,  was  all  my  cry : an  open  mouth, 

A gross  want,  bread  to  fill  it  to  the  lips, 

No  more.  That  poor  men  narrowed  their  demands 
To  such  an  end,  was  virtue,  I supposed, 

Adjudicating  that  to  see  it  so 
Was  reason.  Oh,  I did  not  push  the  case 
Up  higher,  and  ponder  how  it  answers  when 
The  rich  take  up  the  same  cry  for  themselves, 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


339 


Professing  equally, — 4 An  open  month 
A gross  need,  food  to  fill  ns,  and  no  more.’ 

Why  that ’s  so  far  from  virtue,  only  vice 
Can  find  excuse  for ’t ! that  makes  libertines, 

And  slnrs  onr  crnel  streets  from  end  to  end 
With  eighty  thousand  women  in  one  smile, 

Who  only  smile  at  night  beneath  the  gas. 

The  body’s  satisfaction  and  no  more, 

Is  used  for  argument  against  the  soul’s, 

Here  too  ; the  want,  here  too,  implies  the  right. 

— How  dark  I stood  that  morning  in  the  sun, 

My  best  Aurora,  (though  I saw  your  eyes) 

When  first  you  told  me  . . oh,  I recollect 
The  sound,  and  how  you  lifted  your  small  hand, 

And  how  your  white  dress  and  your  burnished  curls 
Went  greatening  round  you  in  the  still  blue  air, 

As  if  an  inspiration  from  within 
Had  blown  them  all  out  when  you  spoke  the  words, 
Even  these, — 4 You  will  not  compass  your  poor  ends 
6 Of  barley-feeding  and  material  ease, 

4 Without  the  poet’s  individualism 
4 To  work  your  universal.  It  takes  a soul, 

4 To  move  a body, — it  takes  a high-souled  man, 

* To  move  the  masses,  even  to  a cleaner  stye : 

4 It  takes  the  ideal,  to  blow  an  inch  inside 
4 The  dust  of  the  actual : and  your  Fouriers  failed, 

4 Because  not  poets  enough  to  understand 
4 That  life  develops  from  within.’  I say 
Your  words, — I could  say  other  words  of  yours, 

For  none  of  all  your  words  will  let  me  go ; 


310 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


Like  sweet  verbena  which,  being  brushed  against, 
Will  hold  us  three  hours  after  by  the  smell 
In  spite  of  long  walks  upon  windy  hills. 

But  these  words  dealt  in  sharper  perfume, — these 
Were  ever  on  me,  stinging  through  my  dreams, 

And  saying  themselves  for  ever  o’er  my  acts 
Like  some  unhappy  verdict.  That  I failed, 

Is  certain.  Stye  or  no  stye,  to  contrive 
The  swine’s  propulsion  toward  the  precipice, 

Proved  easy  and  plain.  I subtly  organised 
And  ordered,  built  the  cards  up  high  and  higher, 
Till,  some  one  breathing,  all  fell  flat  again ; 

In  setting  right  society’s  wide  wrong, 

Mere  life ’s  so  fatal.  So  I failed  indeed 

Once,  twice,  and  oftener, — hearing  through  the  rents 

Of  obstinate  purpose,  still  those  words  of  yours, 

‘ You  will  not  compass  your  poor  ends , not  you  /” 

But  harder  than  you  said  them ; every  time 
Still  farther  from  your  voice,  until  they  came 
To  overcrow  me  with  triumphant  scorn 
Which  vexed  me  to  resistance.  Set  down  this 
For  condemnation, — I was  guilty  here ; 

I stood  upon  my  deed  and  fought  my  doubt, 

As  men  will, — for  I doubted, — till  at  last 
My  deed  gave  way  beneath  me  suddenly 
And  left  me  what  I am : — the  curtain  dropped, 

My  part  quite  ended,  all  the  footlights  quenched, 

My  own  soul  hissing  at  me  through  the  dark, 

I ready  for  confession, — I was  wrong, 

I ’ve  sorely  failed,  I ’ve  slipped  the  ends  of  life, 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


341 


I yield,  you  have  conquered.’ 

‘ Stay,’  I answered  him ; 

4 1 ’ve  something  for  your  hearing,  also.  I 
Have  failed  too.’ 

4 You !’  he  said,  4 you  ’re  very  great ; 
The  sadness  of  your  greatness  fits  you  well : 

As  if  the  plume  upon  a hero’s  casque 
Should  nod  a shadow  upon  his  victor  face.’ 

I took  him  up  austerely, — 4 You  have  read 
My  hook,  hut  not  my  heart ; for  recollect, 

’T  is  writ  in  Sanscrit  which  you  hungle  at. 

I ’ve  surely  failed,  I know,  if  failure  means 
To  look  hack  sadly  on  work  gladly  done, — 

To  wander  on  my  mountains  of  Delight, 

So  called,  (I  can  remember  a friend’s  words 
As  well  as  you,  sir),  weary  and  in  want 
Of  even  a sheep-path,  thinking  bitterly  . . 

Well,  well ! no  matter.  I hut  say  so  much, 

To  keep  you,  Romney  Leigh,  from  saying  more, 

And  let  you  feel  I am  not  so  high  indeed, 

That  I can  hear  to  have  you  at  my  foot, — 

Or  safe,  that  I can  help  you.  That  June-day, 

Too  deeply  sunk  in  craterous  sunsets  now 
For  you  or  me  to  dig  it  up  alive, — 

To  pluck  it  out  all  bleeding  with  spent  flame 
At  the  roots,  before  those  moralising  stars 
We  have  got  instead, — that  poor  lost  day,  you  said 
Some  words  as  truthful  as  the  thing  of  mine 
Yrou  cared  to  keep  in  memory ; and  I hold 


842 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


If  I,  that  day,  and,  being  the  girl  I was, 

Had  shown  a gentler  spirit,  less  arrogance, 

It  had  not  hurt  me.  Yon  will  scarce  mistake 
The  point  here : I bnt  only  think,  yon  see, 

More  jnstly,  that ’s  more  hnmbly,  of  myself, 

Than  when  I tried  a crown  on  and  supposed  . . . 
Nay,  laugh,  sir, — I ’ll  laugh  with  you ! — pray  you,  lau 
I ’ve  had  so  many  birthdays  since  that  day 
I ’ve  learnt  to  prize  mirth’s  opportunities, 

Which  come  too  seldom.  Was  it  you  who  said 
I was  not  changed  ? the  same  Aurora  ? Ah, 

We  could  laugh  there,  too  ! Why,  Ulysses’  dog 
Knew  him , and  wagged  his  tail  and  died  : but  if 
I had  owned  a dog,  I too,  before  my  Troy, 

And  if  you  brought  him  here,  . . I warrant  you 
He  ’d  look  into  my  face,  bark  lustily, 

And  live  on  stoutly,  as  the  creatures  will 
Whose  spirits  are  not  troubled  by  long  loves. 

A dog  would  never  know  me,  I ’m  so  changed, 

Much  less  a friend  . . except  that  you  Ye  misled 
By  the  colour  of  the  hair,  the  trick  of  the  voice, 

Like  that  Aurora  Leigh’s.’ 

4 Sweet  trick  of  voice ! 

I would  be  a dog  for  this,  to  know  it  at  last, 

And  die  upon  the  falls  of  it.  0 love, 

O best  Aurora  ! are  you  then  so  sad 
You  scarcely  had  been  sadder  as  my  wife  ?’ 

4 Your  wife,  sir ! I must  certainly  be  changed, 

If  I,  Aurora,  can  have  said  a thing 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


313 


So  light,  it  catches  at  the  knightly  spurs 
Of  a noble  gentleman  like  Romney  Leigh 
And  trips  him  from  his  honourable  sense 
Of  what  befits  9 * * 

‘ You  wholly  misconceive/ 

lie  answered. 

I returned, — ‘ I ’m  glad  of  it. 

But  keep  from  misconception,  too,  yourself : 

I am  not  humbled  to  so  low  a point, 

Nor  so  far  saddened.  If  I am  sad  at  all, 

Ten  layers  of  birthdays  on  a woman’s  head 
Are  apt  to  fossilise  her  girlish  mirth, 

Though  ne’er  so  merry : I ’m  perforce  more  wise, 
And  that,  in  truth,  means  sadder.  For  the  rest, 
Look  here,  sir : I was  right  upon  the  whole 
That  birthday  morning.  ’T  is  impossible 
To  get  at  men  excepting  through  their  souls, 
However  open  their  carnivorous  jaws ; 

And  poets  get  directlier  at  the  soul, 

Than  any  of  your  ceconomists  : — for  which 
You  must  not  overlook  the  poet’s  work 
When  scheming  for  the  world’s  necessities. 

The  soul  ’s  the  way.  Not  even  Christ  Himself 
Can  save  man  else  than  as  He  holds  man’s  soul ; 
And  therefore  did  He  come  into  our  flesh, 

As  some  wise  hunter  creeping  on  his  knees 
With  a torch,  into  the  blackness  of  a cave, 

To  face  and  quell  the  beast  there, — take  the  soul, 
And  so  possess  the  whole  man,  body  and  soul. 

I said,  so  far,  right,  yes ; not  farther,  though : 


344 


AUEOEA  LEIGH. 


We  both  were  wrong  that  June-day, — both  as  wrong 
As  an  east  wind  had  been.  I who  talked  of  art, 

And  you  who  grieved  for  all  men’s  griefs  . . what  then 
We  surely  made  too  small  a part  for  God 
In  these  things.  What  we  are,  imports  us  more 
Than  what  we  eat ; and  life,  you ’ve  granted  me, 
Develops  from  within.  But  innermost 
Of  the  inmost,  most  interior  of  the  interne, 

God  claims  his  own,  Divine  humanity 
Benewing  nature, — or  the  piercingest  verse, 

Prest  in  by  subtlest  poet,  still  must  keep 

As  much  upon  the  outside  of  a man 

As  the  very  bowl  in  which  he  dips  his  beard. 

— And  then,  . . the  rest ; I cannot  surely  speak : 
Perhaps  I doubt  more  than  you  doubted  then, 

If  I,  the  poet’s  veritable  charge, 

Have  borne  upon  my  forehead.  If  I have, 

It  might  feel  somewhat  liker  to  a crown, 

The  foolish  green  one  even. — Ah,  I think, 

And  chiefly  when  the  sun  shines,  that  I Ve  failed. 

But  what  then,  Eomney  ? Though  we  fail  indeed, 
You  . . I . . a score  of  such  weak  workers,  . . He 
Pails  never.  If  He  cannot  work  by  us, 

He  will  work  over  us.  Does  He  want  a man, 

Much  less  a woman,  think  you  ? Every  time 
The  star  winks  there,  so  many  souls  are  born, 

Who  all  shall  work  too.  Let  our  own  be  calm . 

We  should  be  ashamed  to  sit  beneath  those  stars, 
Impatient  that  we  ’re  nothing.’ 


‘ Could  we  sit 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


345 


Just  so  for  ever,  sweetest  friend,’  he  said, 

4 My  failure  would  seem  better  than  success. 

And  yet  indeed  your  book  has  dealt  with  me 
More  gently,  cousin,  than  you  ever  will ! 

Your  book  brought  down  entire  the  bright  June-day, 
And  set  me  wandering  in  the  garden-walks, 

And  let  me  watch  the  garland  in  a place 

You  blushed  so  . . nay,  forgive  me,  do  not  stir, — 

I only  thank  the  book  for  what  it  taught, 

And  what,  permitted.  Poet,  doubt  yourself, 

But  never  doubt  that  you  ’re  a poet  to  me 
From  henceforth.  You  have  written  poems,  sweet, 
Which  moved  me  in  secret,  as  the  sap  is  moved 
In  still  March-branches,  signless  as  a stone : 

But  this  last  book  o’ercame  me  like  soft  rain 
Which  falls  at  midnight,  when  the  tightened  bark 
Breaks  out  into  unhesitating  buds 
And  sudden  protestations  of  the  spring. 

In  all  your  other  books,  I saw  but  you  : 

A man  may  see  the  moon  so,  in  a pond, 

And  not  be  nearer  therefore  to  the  moon, 

Nor  use  the  sight  . . except  to  drown  himself : 

And  so  I forced  my  heart  back  from  the  sight, 

For  what  had  /,  I thought,  to  do  with  her , 

Aurora  . . Bomney  ? But,  in  this  last  book, 

You  showed  me  something  separate  from  yourself, 

Beyond  you,  and  I bore  to  take  it  in 

And  let  it  draw  me.  You  have  shown  me  truths, 

0 June-day  friend,  that  help  me  now  at  night 
When  June  is  over ! truths  not  yours,  indeed, 


346 


AURORA  LEIGK. 


But  set  within  my  reach  by  means  of  you, 
Presented  by  your  voice  and  verse  the  way 
To  take  them  clearest.  Yerily  I was  wrong; 

And  verily  many  thinkers  of  this  age, 

Ay,  many  Christian  teachers,  half  in  heaven, 

Are  wrong  in  just  my  sense  who  understood 
Our  natural  world  too  insularly,  as  if 
No  spiritual  counterpart  completed  it 
Consummating  its  meaning,  rounding  ail 
To  justice  and  perfection,  line  by  line, 

Form  by  form,  nothing  single  nor  alone, 

The  great  below  clenched  by  the  great  above, 
Shade  here  authenticating  substance  there, 

The  body  proving  spirit,  as  the  effect 

The  cause  : we  meantime  being  too  grossly  apt 

To  hold  the  natural,  as  dogs  a bone, 

(Though  reason  and  nature  beat  us  in  the  face) 

So  obstinately,  that  we  ’ll  break  our  teeth 
Or  ever  we  let  go.  For  everywhere 
We  ’re  too  materialistic, — eating  clay 
(Like  men  of  the  west)  instead  of  Adam’s  corn 
And  Noah’s  wine,  clay  by  handfuls,  clay  by  lumps, 
Until  we  ’re  filled  up  to  the  throat  with  clay, 

And  grow  the  grimy  colour  of  the  ground 
On  which  we  are  feeding.  Ay,  materialist 
The  age’s  name  is.  God  himself,  with  some, 

Is  apprehended  as  the  bare  result 
Of  what  his  hand  materially  has  made, 

Expressed  in  such  an  algebraic  sign 
Called  God ; — that  is,  to  put  it  otherwise, 


AUEOEA  LEIGH. 


347 


They  add  up  nature  to  a nought  of  God 
And  cross  the  quotient.  There  are  many  even, 

Whose  names  are  written  in  the  Christian  church 
To  no  dishonour,  diet  still  on  mud 
And  splash  the  altars  with  it.  You  might  think 
The  clay,  Christ  laid  upon  their  eyelids  when, 

Still  blind,  he  called  them  to  the  use  of  sight, 

Remained  there  to  retard  its  exercise 

With  clogging  incrustations.  Close  to  heaven, 

They  see  for  mysteries,  through  the  open  doors, 

Vague  puffs  of  smoke  from  pots  of  earthenware  ; 

And  fain  would  enter,  when  their  time  shall  come, 
With  quite  another  body  than  Saint  Paul 
Has  promised, — husk  and  chaff,  the  whole  barley-corn, 
Or  where ’s  the  resurrection  ?’ 

4 Thus  it  is,’ 

1 sighed.  And  he  resumed  with  mournful  face. 

4 Beginning  so,  and  filling  up  with  clay 
The  wards  of  this  great  key,  the  natural  world, 

And  fumbling  vainly  therefore  at  the  lock 
Of  the  spiritual,  we  feel  ourselves  shut  in 
With  all  the  wild-beast  roar  of  struggling  life, 

The  terrors  and  compunctions  of  our  souls, 

As  saints  with  lions, — we  who  are  not  saints, 

And  have  no  heavenly  lordship  in  our  stare 
To  awe  them  backward.  Ay,  we  are  forced,  so  pent, 
To  judge  the  whole  too  partially,  . . confound 
Conclusions.  Is  there  any  common  phrase 
Significant,  with  the  adverb  heard  alone, 

The  verb  being  absent,  and  the  pronoun  out  ? 


348 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


But  we,  distracted  in  the  roar  of  life, 

Still  insolently  at  God’s  adverb  snatch, 

And  bruit  against  Him  that  his  thought  is  void, 
His  meaning  hopeless, — cry,  that  everywhere 
The  government  is  slipping  from  his  hand, 

Unless  some  other  Christ  (say  Bomney  Leigh) 
Come  up  and  toil  and  moil  and  change  the  world, 
Because  the  First  has  proved  inadequate, 
However  we  talk  bigly  of  His  work 
And  piously  of  His  person.  We  blaspheme 
At  last,  to  finish  our  doxology, 

Despairing  on  the  earth  for  which  He  died.’ 

‘ So  now,’  I asked,  ‘ you  have  more  hope  of  men  ? 

‘ I hope,’  he  answered.  ‘ I am  come  to  think 
That  God  will  have  his  work  done,  as  you  said, 
And  that  we  need  not  be  disturbed  too  much 
For  Bomney  Leigh  or  others  having  failed 
With  this  or  that  quack  nostrum, — recipes 
For  keeping  summits  by  annulling  depths, 

For  wrestling  with  luxurious  lounging  sleeves, 
And  acting  heroism  without  a scratch. 

We  fail, — what  then?  Aurora,  if  I smiled 
To  see  you,  in  your  lovely  morning-pride, 

Try  on  the  poet’s  wreath  which  suits  the  noon, 
(Sweet  cousin,  walls  must  get  the  weather-stain 
Before  they  grow  the  ivy ! ) certainly 
I stood  myself  there  worthier  of  contempt, 
Self-rated,  in  disastrous  arrogance, 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


349 


As  competent  to  sorrow  for  mankind 

And  even  their  odds.  A man  may  well  despair, 

Who  counts  himself  so  needful  to  success. 

I failed : I throw  the  remedy  hack  on  God, 

And  sit  down  here  beside  you,  in  good  hope.’ 

4 And  yet  take  heed,’  I answered,  4 lest  we  lean 
Too  dangerously  on  the  other  side, 

And  so  fail  twice.  Be  sure,  no  earnest  work 
Of  any  honest  creature,  howbeit  weak, 

Imperfect,  ill-adapted,  fails  so  much, 

It  is  not  gathered  as  a grain  of  sand 
To  enlarge  the  sum  of  human  action  used 
For  carrying  out  God’s  end.  No  creature  works 
So  ill,  observe,  that  therefore  he ’s  cashiered. 
The  honest  earnest  man  must  stand  and  work, 
The  woman  also, — otherwise  she  drops 
At  once  below  the  dignity  of  man, 

Accepting  serfdom.  Free  men  freely  work. 
Whoever  fears  God,  fears  to  sit  at  ease.’ 

He  cried,  4 True.  After  Adam,  work  was  curse ; 
The  natural  creature  labours,  sweats,  and  frets. 
But,  after  Christ,  work  turns  to  privilege, 

And  henceforth,  one  with  our  humanity, 

The  Six-day  Worker  working  still  in  us 
Has  called  us  freely  to  work  on  with  Him 
In  high  companionship.  So,  happiest ! 

I count  that  Heaven  itself  is  only  work 
To  a surer  issue.  Let  us  work,  indeed, 


350 


AUKOKA  LEIGH. 


But  no  more  work  as  Adam, — nor  as  Leigh 
Erewhile,  as  if  the  only  man  on  earth, 

Responsible  for  all  the  thistles  blown 
And  tigers  couchant,  struggling  in  amaze 
Against  disease  and  winter,  snarling  on 
For  ever,  that  the  world ’s  not  paradise. 

Oh  cousin,  let  us  be  content,  in  work, 

To  do  the  thing  we  can,  and  not  presume 
To  fret  because  it ’s  little.  ’T  will  employ 
Seven  men,  they  say,  to  make  a perfect  pin ; 

Who  makes  the  head,  content  to  miss  the  point, 
Who  makes  the  point,  agreed  to  leave  the  join : 
And  if  a man  should  cry,  4 I want  a pin, 

4 And  I must  make  it  straightway,  head  and  point/ 
His  wisdom  is  not  worth  the  pin  he  wants. 

Seven  men  to  a pin, — and  not  a man  too  much ! 
Seven  generations,  haply,  to  this  WT>rld, 

To  right  it  visibly  a finger’s  breadth, 

And  mend  its  rents  a little.  Oh,  to  storm 
And  say,  4 This  world  here  is  intolerable ; 

4 1 will  not  eat  this  corn,  nor  drink  this  wine, 

4 Nor  love  this  woman,  flinging  her  my  soul 
4 Without  a bond  for ’t  as  a lover  should, 

4 Nor  use  the  generous  leave  of  happiness 
4 As  not  too  good  for  using  generously  ’ — 

(Since  virtue  kindles  at  the  touch  of  joy 
Like  a man’s  cheek  laid  on  a woman’s  hand, 

And  God,  who  knows  it,  looks  for  quick  returns 
From  joys) — to  stand  and  claim  to  have  a life 
Beyond  the  bounds  of  the  individual  man, 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


351 


And  raze  all  personal  cloisters  of  the  sonl 
To  build  up  public  stores  and  magazines, 

As  if  God’s  creatures  otherwise  were  lost, 

The  builder  surely  saved  by  any  means ! 

To  think, — I have  a pattern  on  my  nail, 

And  I will  carve  the  world  new  after  it 
And  solve  so  these  hard  social  questions, — nay, 
Impossible  social  questions,  since  their  roots 
Strike  deep  in  Evil’s  own  existence  here 
Which  God  permits  because  the  question ’s  hard 
To  abolish  evil  nor  attaint  free-will. 

Ay,  hard  to  God,  but  not  to  Romney  Leigh ! 

For  Romney  has  a pattern  on  his  nail, 
(Whatever  may  be  lacking  on  the  Mount) 

And,  not  being  overnice  to  separate 
What ’s  element  from  what ’s  convention,  hastes 
By  line  on  line  to  draw  you  out  a world, 
Without  your  help  indeed,  unless  you  take 
His  yoke  upon  you  and  will  learn  of  him, 

So  much  he  has  to  teach ! so  good  a world ! 

The  same,  the  whole  creation ’s  groaning  for ! 
No  rich  nor  poor,  no  gain  nor  loss  nor  stint ; 

No  potage  in  it  able  to  exclude 
A brother’s  birthright,  and  no  right  of  birth, 
The  potage, — both  secured  to  every  man, 

And  perfect  virtue  dealt  out  like  the  rest 
Gratuitously,  with  the  soup  at  six, 

To  whoso  does  not  seek  it.’ 

4 Softly,  sir,’ 

I interrupted, — 4 1 had  a cousin  once 


352 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


I held  in  reverence.  If  he  strained  too  wide, 

It  was  not  to  take  honour  hut  give  help ; 

The  gesture  was  heroic.  If  his  hand 
Accomplished  nothing  . . (well,  it  is  not  proved) 
That  empty  hand  thrown  impotently  out 
Were  sooner  caught,  I think,  by  One  in  heaven, 
Than  many  a hand  that  reaped  a harvest  in 
And  keeps  the  scythe’s  glow  on  it.  Pray  you,  then, 
For  my  sake  merely,  use  less  bitterness 
In  speaking  of  my  cousin.’ 

4 Ah,’  he  said, 

4 Aurora  ! when  the  prophet  beats  the  ass, 

The  angel  intercedes.’  He  shook  his  head — 

‘ And  yet  to  mean  so  well  and  fail  so  foul, 

Expresses  ne’er  another  beast  than  man ; 

The  antithesis  is  human.  Harken,  dear  ; 

There ’s  too  much  abstract  willing,  purposing, 

In  this  poor  world.  We  talk  by  aggregates, 

And  think  by  systems,  and,  being  used  to  face 

Our  evils  in  statistics,  are  inclined 

To  cap  them  with  unreal  remedies 

Drawn  out  in  haste  on  the  other  side  the  slate.’ 

4 That ’s  true,’  I answered,  fain  to  thrown  up  thought 
And  make  a game  of ’t, — 4 Yes,  we  generalise 
Enough  to  please  you.  If  we  pray  at  all, 

We  pray  no  longer  for  our  daily  bread 
But  next  centenary’s  harvests.  If  we  give, 

Our  cup  of  water  is  not  tendered  till 
We  lay  down  pipes  and  found  a Company 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


353 


With  Branches.  Ass  or  angel,  ’t  is  the  same : 

A woman  cannot  do  the  thing  she  ought, 

Which  means  whatever  perfect  thing  she  can, 

In  life,  in  art,  in  science,  "but  she  fears 
To  let  the  perfect  action  take  her  part, 

And  rest  there  : she  must  prove  what  she  can  do 
Before  she  does  it,  prate  of  woman’s  rights, 

Of  woman’s  mission,  woman’s  function,  till 
The  men  (who  are  prating  too  on  their  side)  cry, 
‘ A woman’s  function  plainly  is  . . to  talk.’ 

Poor  souls,  they  are  very  reasonably  vexed ; 
They  cannot  hear  each  other  talk.’ 

‘ And  you, 


An  artist,  judge  so  ? 

‘ I,  an  artist, — yes  : 

Because,  precisely,  I ’m  an  artist,  sir, 

And  woman,  if  another  sate  in  sight, 

I ’d  whisper, — Soft,  my  sister ! not  a word ! 

By  speaking  we  prove  only  we  can  speak, 

Which  he,  the  man  here,  never  doubted.  What 
He  doubts  is,  whether  we  can  do  the  thing 
With  decent  grace  we  ’ve  not  yet  done  at  all. 

Now,  do  it ; bring  your  statue, — you  have  room  ! 

He  ’ll  see  it  even  by  the  starlight  here ; 

And  if ’t  is  e’er  so  little  like  the  god 
Who  looks  out  from  the  marble  silently 
Along  the  track  of  his  own  shining  dart 
Through  the  dusk  of  ages,  there ’s  no  need  to  speak ; 
The  universe  shall  henceforth  speak  for  you, 

And  witness,  4 She  who  did  this  thing,  was  bom 

2 A 


354 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


To  do  it, — claims  lier  license  in  lier  work.’ 

And  so  with  more  works.  Whoso  cures  the  plague, 
Though  twice  a woman,  shall  he  called  a leech : 
Who  rights  a land’s  finances,  is  excused 
For  touching  coppers,  though  her  hands  he  white, — 
But  we,  we  talk !’ 

4 It  is  the  age’s  mood,’ 

He  said ; 4 we  hoast,  and  do  not.  We  put  up 
Hostelry  signs  where’er  we  lodge  a day, 

Some  red  colossal  cow  with  mighty  paps 
A Cyclops’  fingers  could  not  strain  to  milk, — 

Then  bring  out  presently  our  saucerful 
Of  curds.  We  want  more  quiet  in  our  works, 

More  knowledge  of  the  hounds  in  which  we  work ; 
More  knowledge  that  each  individual  man 
Bemains  an  Adam  to  the  general  race, 

Constrained  to  see,  like  Adam,  that  he  keep 
His  personal  state’s  condition  honestly, 

Or  vain  all  thoughts  of  his  to  help  the  world, 

Which  still  must  he  developed  from  its  one 
If  bettered  in  its  many.  We  indeed, 

Who  think  to  lay  it  out  new  like  a park, 

We  take  a work  on  us  which  is  not  man’s, 

For  God  alone  sits  far  enough  above 
To  speculate  so  largely.  None  of  us 
(Not,  Bomney  Leigh)  is  mad  enough  to  say, 

We  ’ll  have  a grove  of  oaks  upon  that  slope 
And  sink  the  need  of  acorns.  Government, 

If  veritable  and  lawful,  is  not  given 
By  imposition  of  the  foreign  hand, 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


355 


Nor  chosen  from  a pretty  pattern-book 
Of  some  domestic  idealogue  who  sits 
And  coldly  chooses  empire,  where  as  well 
He  might  republic.  Genuine  government 
Is  but  the  expression  of  a nation,  good 
Or  less  good, — even  as  all  society, 

Howe’er  unequal,  monstrous,  crazed  and  cursed, 

Is  but  the  expression  of  men’s  single  lives, 

The  loud  sum  of  the  silent  units.  What, 

We  ’d  change  the  aggregate  and  yet  retain 
Each  separate  figure  ? whom  do  we  cheat  by  that  ? 

Now,  not  even  Romney.’ 

‘ Cousin,  you  are  sad. 

Hid  all  your  social  labour  at  Leigh  Hall 
And  elsewhere,  come  to  nought  then  ?’ 

‘ It  was  nought,’ 

He  answered  mildly.  ‘ There  is  room  indeed 
For  statues  still,  in  this  large  world  of  God’s, 

But  not  for  vacuums, — so  I am  not  sad ; 

Not  sadder  than  is  good  for  what  I am. 

My  vain  phalanstery  dissolved  itself ; 

My  men  and  women  of  disordered  lives, 

I brought  in  orderly  to  dine  and  sleep, 

Broke  up  those  waxen  masks  I made  them  wear, 

With  fierce  contortions  of  the  natural  face, — 

And  cursed  me  for  my  tyrannous  constraint 
In  forcing  crooked  creatures  to  live  straight ; 

And  set  the  country  hounds  upon  my  back 
To  bite  and  tear  me  for  my  wicked  deed 
Of  trying  to  do  good  without  the  church 


356 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


Or  even  the  squires,  Aurora.  Do  you  mind 
Your  ancient  neighbours  ? The  great  book-club  teems 
With 4 sketches,’  ‘summaries,’  and  4 last  tracts’  but  twelve, 
On  socialistic  troublers  of  close  bonds 
Betwixt  the  generous  rich  and  grateful  poor. 

The  vicar  preached  from  4 Revelations  ’ (till 
The  doctor  woke),  and  found  me  with  4 the  frogs  ’ 

On  three  successive  Sundays ; ay,  and  stopped 
To  weep  a little  (for  he ’s  getting  old) 

That  such  perdition  should  o’ertake  a man 
Of  such  fair  acres, — in  the  parish,  too  ! 

He  printed  his  discourses  4 by  request,’ 

And  if  your  book  shall  sell  as  his  did,  then 
Your  verses  are  less  good  than  I suppose. 

The  women  of  the  neighbourhood  subscribed, 

And  sent  me  a copy  bound  in  scarlet  silk, 

Tooled  edges,  blazoned  with  the  arms  of  Leigh  : 

I own  that  touched  me.’ 


‘ What,  the  pretty  ones  ? 


Poor  Romney !’ 

4 Otherwise  the  effect  was  small : 

I had  my  windows  broken  once  or  twice 
By  liberal  peasants  naturally  incensed 
At  such  a vexer  of  Arcadian  peace, 

Who  would  not  let  men  call  their  wives  their  own 
To  kick  like  Britons,  and  made  obstacles 
When  things  went  smoothly  as  a baby  drugged, 
Toward  freedom  and  starvation, — bringing  down 
The  wicked  London  tavern-thieves  and  drabs 
To  affront  the  blessed  hillside  drabs  and  thieves 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


357 


With  mended  morals,  quotha, — fine  new  lives ! — 
My  windows  paid  for ’t.  I was  shot  at,  once, 

By  an  active  poacher  who  had  hit  a hare 
From  the  other  barrel,  (tired  of  springeing  game 
So  long  upon  my  acres,  undisturbed, 

And  restless  for  the  country’s  virtue, — yet 
He  missed  me)  ay,  and  pelted  very  oft 
In  riding  through  the  village.  ‘ There  he  goes 
‘ Who ’d  drive  away  our  Christian  gentlefolks, 

‘ To  catch  us  undefended  in  the  trap 
* He  baits  with  poisonous  cheese,  and  lock  us  up 
4 In  that  pernicious  prison  of  Leigh  Hall 
‘ With  all  his  murderers  ! Give  another  name 
‘ And  say  Leigh  Hell,  and  burn  it  up  with  fire.’ 
And  so  they  did,  at  last,  Aurora.’ 

‘Did?’ 


‘ You  never  heard  it,  cousin?  Vincent’s  news 
Came  stinted,  then.’ 

‘ They  did  ? they  burnt  Leigh  Hall  ?’ 

‘ You  ’re  sorry,  dear  Aurora?  Yes  indeed, 

They  did  it  perfectly  : a thorough  work, 

And  not  a failure,  this  time.  Let  us  grant 
’T  is  somewhat  easier,  though,  to  burn  a house 
Than  build  a system ; — yet  that ’s  easy,  too. 

In  a dream.  Books,  pictures, — ay,  the  pictures  ! whaL 
You  think  your  dear  Vandykes  would  give  them  pause  ? 
Our  proud  ancestral  Leighs,  with  those  peaked  beards, 
Or  bosoms  white  as  foam  thrown  up  on  rocks 


358 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


From  the  old-spent  wave.  Such  calm  defiant  looks 
They  flared  up  with ! now  nevermore  to  twit 
The  bones  in  the  family-vault  with  ugly  death. 

Not  one  was  rescued,  save  the  Lady  Maud, 

Who  threw  you  down,  that  morning  you  were  born, 
The  undeniable  lineal  mouth  and  chin 
To  wear  for  ever  for  her  gracious  sake, 

For  which  good  deed  I saved  her ; the  rest  went  : 
And  you,  you  ’re  sorry,  cousin.  Well,  for  me, 

With  all  my  phalansterians  safely  out, 

(Poor  hearts,  they  helped  the  burners,  it  was  said, 
And  certainly  a few  clapped  hands  and  yelled) 

The  ruin  did  not  hurt  me  as  it  might, — 

As  when  for  instance  I was  hurt  one  day 
A certain  letter  being  destroyed.  In  fact, 

To  see  the  great  house  flare  so  . . oaken  floors, 

Our  fathers  made  so  fine  with  rushes  once 
Before  our  mothers  furbished  them  with  trains, 
Carved  wainscoats,  panelled  walls,  the  favourite  slide 
For  draining  off  a martyr,  (or  a rogue) 

The  echoing  galleries,  half  a half-mile  long, 

And  all  the  various  stairs  that  took  you  up 
And  took  you  down,  and  took  you  round  about 
Upon  their  slippery  darkness,  recollect, 

All  helping  to  keep  up  one  blazing  jest ! 

The  flames  through  all  the  casements  pushing  forth 
Like  red-hot  devils  crinkled  into  snakes, 

All  signifying, — ‘ Look  you,  Bomney  Leigh, 

‘ We  save  the  people  from  your  saving,  here, 

‘ Yet  so  as  by  fire ! we  make  a pretty  show 


AUROEA  LEIGH. 


359 


4 Besides, — and  that ’s  the  best  yon  ’ve  ever  done.’ 

— To  see  this,  almost  moved  myself  to  clap  ! 

The  4 vale  et  plande  ’ came  too  with  effect 
When,  in  the  roof  fell,  and  the  fire  that  pansed, 

Stunned  momently  beneath  the  stroke  of  slates 
And  tumbling  rafters,  rose  at  once  and  roared, 

And  wrapping  the  whole  house  (which  disappeared 
In  a mounting  whirlwind  of  dilated  flame,) 

Blew  upward,  straight,  its  drift  of  fiery  chaff 
In  the  face  of  Heaven,  which  blenched,  and  ran  up 
higher.’ 

4 Poor  Eomney !’ 

4 Sometimes  when  I dream,’  he  said 
4 1 hear  the  silence  after,  ’t  was  so  still. 

For  all  those  wild  beasts,  yelling,  cursing  round, 

Were  suddenly  silent,  while  you  counted  five, 

So  silent,  that  you  heard  a young  bird  fall 
From  the  top-nest  in  the  neighbouring  rookery, 

Through  edging  over-rashly  toward  the  light. 

The  old  rooks  had  already  fled  too  far, 

To  hear  the  screech  they  fled  with,  though  you  saw 
Some  flying  still,  like  scatterings  of  dead  leaves 
In  autumn-gusts,  seen  dark  against  the  sky, — 

All  flying, — ousted,  like  the  House  of  Leigh.’ 

4 Dear  Eomney !’ 

4 Evidently ’t  would  have  been 
A fine  sight  for  a poet,  sweet,  like  you, 

To  make  the  verse  blaze  after.  I myself, 


360 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


Even  I,  felt  something  in  the  grand  old  trees, 

Which  stood  that  moment  like  brute  Druid  gods 
Amazed  upon  the  rim  of  ruin,  where, 

As  into  a blackened  socket,  the  great  fire 

Had  dropped, — still  throwing  up  splinters  now  and  then 

To  show  them  gray  with  all  their  centuries, 

Left  there  to  witness  that  on  such  a day 
The  House  went  out.’ 

‘Ah!’ 

4 While  you  counted  five, 
I seemed  to  feel  a little  like  a Leigh, — • 

But  then  it  passed,  Aurora.  A child  cried, 

And  I had  enough  to  think  of  what  to  do 
With  all  those  houseless  wretches  in  the  dark, 

And  ponder  where  they ’d  dance  the  next  time,  they 
Who  had  burnt  the  viol/ 

4 Did  you  think  of  that  ? 

Who  burns  his  viol  will  not  dance,  I know, 

To  cymbals,  Bomney.’ 

4 0 my  sweet  sad  voice,’ 

He  cried, — 4 0 voice  that  speaks  and  overcomes ! 

The  sun  is  silent,  but  Aurora  speaks.’ 

4 Alas,’  I said,  4 1 speak  I know  not  what : 

I ’m  back  in  childhood,  thinking  as  a child, 

A foolish  fancy — will  it  make  you  smile  ? 

I shall  not  from  the  window  of  my  room 
Catch  sight  of  those  old  chimneys  any  more.’ 

4 No  more,’  he  answered.  4 If  you  pushed  one  day 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


361 


Through  all  the  green  hills  to  our  fathers’  house, 
You ’d  come  upon  a great  charred  circle,  where 
The  patient  earth  was  singed  an  acre  round ; 

With  one  stone-stair,  symbolic  of  my  life, 
Ascending,  winding,  leading  up  to  nought ! 

’T  is  worth  a poet’s  seeing.  Will  you  go  ?’ 

I made  no  answer.  Had  I any  right 
To  weep  with  this  man,  that  I dared  to  speak  ? 

A woman  stood  between  his  soul  and  mine, 

And  waved  us  off  from  touching  evermore, 

With  those  unclean  white  hands  of  hers.  Enough. 
We  had  burnt  our  viols  and  were  silent. 

So, 

The  silence  lengthened  till  it  pressed.  I spoke, 

To  breathe : 4 1 think  you  were  ill  afterward.’ 

4 More  ill,’  he  answered,  4 had  been  scarcely  ill. 

I hoped  this  feeble  fumbling  at  life’s  knot 
Might  end  concisely, — but  I failed  to  die, 

As  formerly  I failed  to  live, — and  thus 
Grew  willing,  having  tried  all  other  ways, 

To  try  just  God’s.  Humility ’s  so  good, 

When  pride ’s  impossible.  Mark  us,  how  we  make 
Our  virtues,  cousin,  from  our  worn-out  sins, 

Which  smack  of  them  from  henceforth.  Is  it  right, 
For  instance,  to  wed  here  while  you  love  there  ? 
And  yet  because  a man  sins  once,  the  sin 
Cleaves  to  him,  in  necessity  to  sin, 

That  if  he  sin  not  so,  to  damn  himself, 


362 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


He  sins  so,  to  damn  others  with,  himself : 

And  thus,  to  wed  here,  loving  there,  becomes 
A duty.  Virtue  buds  a dubious  leaf 
Eound  mortal  brows ; your  ivy  \s  better,  dear. 

— Yet  she,  ’t  is  certain,  is  my  very  wife, 

The  very  lamb  left  mangled  by  the  wolves 
Through  my  own  bad  shepherding : and  could  I choose 
But  take  her  on  my  shoulder  past  this  stretch 
Of  rough,  uneasy  wilderness,  poor  lamb, 

Poor  child,  poor  child  ? — Aurora,  my  beloved 
I will  not  vex  you  any  more  to-night, 

But,  having  spoken  what  I came  to  say, 

The  rest  shall  please  you.  What  she  can,  in  me, — 
Protection,  tender  liking,  freedom,  ease, 

She  shall  have  surely,  liberally,  for  her 
And  hers,  Aurora.  Small  amends  they  11  make 
For  hideous  evils  which  she  had  not  known 
Except  by  me,  and  for  this  imminent  loss, 

This  forfeit  presence  of  a gracious  friend, 

Which  also  she  must  forfeit  for  my  sake, 

Since,  ....  drop  your  hand  in  mine  a moment,  sweet, 

We  ’re  parting  ! ah,  my  snow-drop,  what  a touch, 

As  if  the  wind  had  swept  it  off ! you  grudge 
Your  gelid  sweetness  on  my  palm  but  so, 

A moment  ? angry,  that  I could  not  bear 

You  . . speaking,  breathing,  living,  side  by  side 

With  some  one  called  my  wife  . . and  live,  myself? 

Nay,  be  not  cruel — you  must  understand ! 

Your  lightest  footfall  on  a floor  of  mine 

Would  shake  the  house,  my  lintel  being  uncrossed 


AUEOBA  LEIGH. 


363 


’Gainst  angels  : henceforth  it  is  night  with  me, 

And  so,  henceforth,  I pnt  the  shutters  np  : 

Auroras  must  not  come  to  spoil  my  dark.’ 

He  smiled  so  feebly,  with  an  empty  hand 
Stretched  sideway  from  me, — as  indeed  he  looked 
To  any  one  hut  me  to  give  him  help ; 

And,  while  the  moon  came  suddenly  out  full, 

The  double-rose  of  our  Italian  moons, 

Sufficient  plainly  for  the  heaven  and  earth, 

(The  stars  struck  dumb  and  washed  away  in  dews 
Of  golden  glory,  and  the  mountains  steeped 
In  divine  languor)  he,  the  man,  appeared 
So  pale  and  patient,  like  the  marble  man 
A sculptor  puts  his  personal  sadness  in 
To  join  his  grandeur  of  ideal  thought, — 

As  if  his  mallet  struck  me  from  my  height 
Of  passionate  indignation,  I who  had  risen 
Pale,  doubting  paused,  ....  Was  Eomney  mad  indeed  ? 
Had  all  this  wrong  of  heart  made  sick  the  brain  ? 

Then  quiet,  with  a sort  of  tremulous  pride, 

‘ Go,  cousin,’  I said  coldly ; ‘ a farewell 
Was  sooner  spoken  ’twixt  a pair  of  friends 
In  those  old  days,  than  seems  to  suit  you  now. 
Howbeit,  since  then,  I ’ve  writ  a book  or  two, 

I ’m  somewhat  dull  still  in  the  manly  art 
Of  phrase  and  metaphrase.  Why,  any  man 
Can  carve  a score  of  white  Loves  out  of  snow, 

As  Buonarroti  in  my  Florence  there, 


364 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


And  set  them  on  the  wall  in  some  safe  shade, 

As  safe,  sir,  as  your  marriage  ! very  good  ; 
Though  if  a woman  took  one  from  the  ledge 
To  put  it  on  the  table  by  her  flowers 
And  let  it  mind  her  of  a certain  friend, 

’T  would  drop  at  once  (so  better),  would  not  bear 
Her  nail-mark  even,  where  she  took  it  up 
A little  tenderly, — so  best,  I say : 

For  me,  I would  not  touch  the  fragile  thing 
And  risk  to  spoil  it  half  an  hour  before 
The  sun  shall  shine  to  melt  it : leave  it  there. 

I ’m  plain  at  speech,  direct  in  purpose : when 
I speak,  you  ’ll  take  the  meaning  as  it  is, 

And  not  allow  for  puckerings  in  the  silk 
By  clever  stitches  : — I ’m  a woman,  sir, 

I use  the  woman’s  figures  naturally, 

As  you  the  male  license.  So,  I wish  you  well. 

I ’m  simply  sorry  for  the  griefs  you ’ve  had, 

And  not  for  your  sake  only,  but  mankind’s. 

This  race  is  never  grateful : from  the  first, 

One  fills  their  cup  at  supper  with  pure  wine, 
Which  back  they  give  at  cross-time  on  a sponge, 
In  vinegar  and  gall.’ 

‘ If  gratefuller,’ 

He  murmured,  ‘ by  so  much  less  pitiable  ! 

God’s  self  would  never  have  come  down  to  die, 
Could  man  have  thanked  him  for  it.’ 

‘ Happily 

’T  is  patent  that,  whatever,’  I resumed, 

4 You  suffered  from  this  thanklessness  of  men, 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


365 


You  sink  no  more  than  Moses’  bulrush-boat 
When  once  relieved  of  Moses, — for  you  ’re  light, 

You  ’re  light,  my  cousin  ! which  is  well  for  you, 

And  manly.  For  myself, — now  mark  me,  sir, 

They  burnt  Leigh  Hall ; but  if,  consummated 
To  devils,  heightened  beyond  Lucifers, 

They  had  burnt  instead,  a star  or  two  of  those 
We  saw  above  there  just  a moment  back, 

Before  the  moon  abolished  them, — destroyed 
And  riddled  them  in  ashes  through  a sieve 
On  the  head  of  the  foundering  universe, — what  then  ? 
If  you  and  I remained  still  you  and  I, 

It  could  not  shift  our  places  as  mere  friends, 

Nor  render  decent  you  should  toss  a phrase 
Beyond  the  point  of  actual  feeling ! — nay, 

You  shall  not  interrupt  me  : as  you  said, 

We  ’re  parting.  Certainly,  not  once  nor  twice 
To-night  you ’ve  mocked  me  somewhat,  or  yourself, 
And  I,  at  least,  have  not  deserved  it  so 
That  I should  meet  it  unsurprised.  But  now, 
Enough : we  ’re  parting  . . parting.  Cousin  Leigh, 

I wish  you  well  through  all  the  acts  of  life 
And  life’s  relations,  wedlock  not  the  least, 

And  it  shall  ‘ please  me,’  in  your  words,  to  know 
You  yield  your  wife,  protection,  freedom.,  ease, 

And  very  tender  liking.  May  you  live 
So  happy  with  her,  Bomney,  that  your  friends 
Shall  praise  her  for  it.  Meantime  some  of  us 
Are  wholly  dull  in  keeping  ignorant 
Of  what  she  has  suffered  by  you,  and  what  debt 


366 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


Of  sorrow  your  ricli  love  sits  down  to  pay  : 

But  if ’t  is  sweet  for  love  to  pay  its  debt, 

JT  is  sweeter  still  for  love  to  give  its  gift, 

And  you,  be  liberal  in  the  sweeter  way, 

You  can,  I think.  At  least,  as  touches  me, 

You  owe  her,  cousin  Romney,  no  amends. 

She  is  not  used  to  hold  my  gown  so  fast, 

You  need  entreat  her  now  to  let  it  go ; 

The  lady  never  was  a friend  of  mine, 

Nor  capable, — I thought  you  knew  as  much, — 

Of  losing  for  your  sake  so  poor  a prize 
As  such  a worthless  friendship.  Be  content, 

Good  cousin,  therefore,  both  for  her  and  you ! 

I ’ll  never  spoil  your  dark,  nor  dull  your  noon, 

Nor  vex  you  when  you  ’re  merry,  or  at  rest : 

You  shall  not  need  to  put  a shutter  up 
To  keep  out  this  Aurora, — though  your  north 
Can  make  Auroras  which  vex  nobody, 

Scarce  known  from  night,  I fancied  ! let  me  add, 

My  larks  fly  higher  than  some  windows.  Well, 

You  Ve  read  your  Leighs.  Indeed ’t  would  shake  a house, 
If  such  as  I came  in  with  outstretched  hand 
Still  warm  and  thrilling  from  the  clasp  of  one  . . 

Of  one  we  know,  . . to  acknowledge,  palm  to  palm, 

As  mistress  there,  the  Lady  Waldemar. 

‘ Now  God  be  with  us  ’ . . with  a sudden  clash 
Of  voice  he  interrupted — ‘ what  name ’s  that  ? 

You  spoke  a name,  Aurora.’ 


6 Pardon  me ; 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


367 


I would  that,  Romney,  I could  name  your  wife 
Nor  wound  you,  yet  be  worthy.’ 

‘ Are  we  mad  ?’ 

He  echoed — ‘ wife ! mine ! Lady  Waldemar  ! 

I think  you  said  my  wife.’  He  sprang  to  his  feet, 
And  threw  his  noble  head  back  toward  the  moon 
As  one  who  swims  against  a stormy  sea, 

Then  laughed  with  such  a helpless,  hopeless  scorn, 
I stood  and  trembled. 

‘ May  God  judge  me  so,’ 

He  said  at  last, — ‘ I came  convicted  here, 

And  humbled  sorely  if  not  enough.  I came, 
Because  this  woman  from  her  crystal  soul 
Had  shown  me  something  which  a man  calls  light : 
Because  too,  formerly,  I sinned  by  her 
As  then  and  ever  since  I have,  by  God, 

Through  arrogance  of  nature, — though  I loved  . . 
Whom  best,  I need  not  say,  since  that  is  writ 
Too  plainly  in  the  book  of  my  misdeeds  : 

And  thus  I came  here  to  abase  myself, 

And  fasten,  kneeling,  on  her  regent  brows 
A garland  which  I startled  thence  one  day 
Of  her  beautiful  June-youth.  But  here  again 
I ’m  baffled, — fail  in  my  abasement  as 
My  aggrandisement : there ’s  no  room  left  for  me 
At  any  woman’s  foot  who  misconceives 
My  nature,  purpose,  possible  actions.  What ! 

Are  you  the  Aurora  who  made  large  my  dreams 
To  frame  your  greatness  ? you  conceive  so  small  ? 
You  stand  so  less  than  woman,  through  being  more, 


368 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


And  lose  your  natural  instinct  (like  a beast) 
Through  intellectual  culture  ? since  indeed 
I do  not  think  that  any  common  she 
Would  dare  adopt  such  monstrous  forgeries 
For  the  legible  life-signature  of  such 
As  I,  with  all  my  blots, — with  all  my  blots  ! 

At  last  then,  peerless  cousin,  we  are  peers, 

At  last  we  ’re  even.  Ah,  you ’ve  left  your  height, 
And  here  upon  my  level  we  take  hands, 

And  here  I reach  you  to  forgive  you,  sweet, 

And  that ’s  a fall,  Aurora.  Long  ago 
You  seldom  understood  me, — but  before, 

I could  not  blame  you.  Then,  you  only  seemed 
So  high  above,  you  could  not  see  below ; 

But  now  I breathe, — but  now  I pardon ! — nay, 

We  ’re  parting.  Dearest,  men  have  burnt  my  house, 
Maligned  my  motives, — but  not  one,  I swear, 

Has  wronged  my  soul  as  this  Aurora  has, 

Who  called  the  Lady  Waldemar  my  wife.’ 

‘ Not  married  to  her ! yet  you  said  ’ . . 

4 Again  ? 

4 Nay,  read  the  lines  ’ (he  held  a letter  out) 

4 She  sent  you  through  me.’ 

By  the  moonlight  there, 

I tore  the  meaning  out  with  passionate  haste 
Much  rather  than  I read  it.  Thus  it  ran. 


( 369  ) 


NINTH  BOOK. 


Even  thus.  I pause  to  write  it  out  at  length, 

The  letter  of  the  Lady  Waldemar. 

‘ I prayed  your  cousin  Leigh  to  take  you  this, 

He  says  he  ’ll  do  it.  After  years  of  love. 

Or  what  is  called  so,  when  a woman  frets 
And  fools  upon  one  string  of  a man’s  name, 

And  fingers  it  for  ever  till  it  breaks, — 

He  may  perhaps  do  for  her  such  a thing, 

And  she  accept  it  without  detriment 
Although  she  should  not  love  him  any  more. 

And  I,  who  do  not  love  him,  nor  love  you. 

Nor  you,  Aurora, — choose  you  shall  repent 
Your  most  ungracious  letter  and  confess, 
Constrained  by  his  convictions,  (he ’s  convinced,) 
You  ’ve  wronged  me  foully.  Are  you  made  so  ill, 
You  woman — to  impute  such  ill  to  me  ? 

We  both  had  mothers, — lay  in  their  bosom  once. 
And  after  all,  I thank  you,  Aurora  Leigh, 

For  proving  to  myself  that  there  are  things 

2 B 


370 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


I would  not  do, — not  for  my  life,  nor  him, 

Though  something  I have  somewhat  overdone, — 

For  instance,  when  I went  to  see  the  gods 
One  morning  on  Olympus,  with  a step 
That  shook  the  thunder  from  a certain  cloud, 
Committing  myself  vilely.  Could  I think, 

The  Muse  I pulled  my  heart  out  from  my  breast 
To  soften,  had  herself  a sort  of  heart, 

And  loved  my  mortal  ? He  at  least  loved  her, 

I heard  him  say  so, — ’t  was  my  recompense, 

When,  watching  at  his  bedside  fourteen  days, 

He  broke  out  ever  like  a flame  at  whiles 
Between  the  heats  of  fever, — 4 Is  it  thou  ? 

4 Breathe  closer,  sweetest  mouth  F and  when  at  last 
The  fever  gone,  the  wasted  face  extinct, 

As  if  it  irked  him  much  to  know  me  there, 

He  said,  4 ’T  was  kind,  ’t  was  good,  ’t  was  womanly,’ 
(And  fifty  praises  to  excuse  no  love) 

4 But  was  the  picture  safe  he  had  ventured  for  ?’ 

And  then,  half  wandering, — 4 1 have  loved  her  well, 

4 Although  she  cordd  not  love  me.’ — 4 Say  instead,’ 

I answered,  4 she  does  love  you.’ — ’T  was  my  turn 
To  rave  : I would  have  married  him  so  changed, 
Although  the  world  had  jeered  me  properly 
For  taking  up  with  Cupid  at  his  worst, 

The  silver  quiver  worn  off  on  his  hair. 

4 No,  no,’  he  murmured,  4 no,  she  loves  me  not; 

4 Aurora  Leigh  does  better : bring  her  book 
4 And  read  it  softly,  Lady  Waldemar, 

4 Until  I thank  your  friendship  more  for  that 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


371 


4 Than  even  for  harder  service.’  So  I read 
Yonr  book,  Aurora,  for  an  hour  that  day : 

I kept  its  pauses,  marked  its  emphasis ; 

My  voice,  empaled  upon  its  hooks  of  rhyme, 

Not  once  would  writhe,  nor  quiver,  nor  revolt; 

I read  on  calmly, — calmly  shut  it  up, 

Observing,  4 There ’s  some  merit  in  the  book ; 

4 And  yet  the  merit  in ’t  is  thrown  away, 

4 As  chances  still  with  women  if  we  write 
4 Or  write  not : we  want  string  to  tie  our  flowers, 

4 So  drop  them  as  we  walk,  which  serves  to  show 
4 The  way  we  went.  Good  morning,  Mister  Leigh ; 

4 You  ’ll  find  another  reader  the  next  time. 

4 A woman  who  does  better  than  to  love, 

4 1 hate ; she  will  do  nothing  very  well : 

4 Male  poets  are  preferable,  straining  less 
4 And  teaching  more.’  I triumphed  o’er  you  both, 
And  left  him. 

4 When  I saw  him  afterward 
I had  read  your  shameful  letter,  and  my  heart. 

He  came  with  health  recovered,  strong  though  pale, 
Lord  Howe  and  he,  a courteous  pair  of  friends, 

To  say  what  men  dare  say  to  women,  when 
Their  debtors.  But  I stopped  them  with  a word, 
And  proved  I had  never  trodden  such  a road 
To  carry  so  much  dirt  upon  my  shoe. 

Then,  putting  into  it  something  of  disdain, 

I asked  forsooth  his  pardon,  and  my  own, 

For  having  done  no  better  than  to  love, 

And  that  not  wisely, — though ’t  was  long  ago, 


372 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


And  had  been  mended  radically  since. 

I told  him,  as  I tell  yon  now,  Miss  Leigh, 

And  proved,  I took  some  trouble  for  his  sake 
(Because  I knew  he  did  not  love  the  girl) 

To  spoil  my  hands  with  working  in  the  stream 
Of  that  poor  bubbling  nature, — till  she  went. 
Consigned  to  one  I trusted,  my  own  maid 
"Who  once  had  lived  full  five  months  in  my  house, 
(Dressed  hair  superbly)  with  a lavish  purse 
To  carry  to  Australia  where  she  had  left 
A husband,  said  she.  If  the  creature  lied, 

The  mission  failed,  we  all  do  fail  and  lie 
More  or  less — and  I ’m  sorry — which  is  all 
Expected  from  us  when  we  fail  the  most 
And  go  to  church  to  own  it.  What  I meant, 

Was  just  the  best  for  him,  and  me,  and  her  . . 

Best  even  for  Marian ! — I am  sorry  for  ’t, 

And  very  sorry.  Yet  my  creature  said 

She  saw  her  stop  to  speak  in  Oxford  Street 

To  one  . . no  matter ! I had  sooner  cut 

My  hand  off  (though ’t  were  kissed  the  hour  before, 

And  promised  a duke’s  troth-ring  for  the  next) 

Than  crush  her  silly  head  with  so  much  wrong. 
Poor  child ! I would  have  mended  it  with  gold, 
Until  it  gleamed  like  St.  Sophia’s  dome 
When  all  the  faithful  troop  to  morning  prayer : 

But  he,  he  nipped  the  bud  of  such  a thought 
With  that  cold  Leigh  look  which  I fancied  once, 
And  broke  in,  4 Henceforth  she  was  called  his  wife : 
4 His  wife  required  no  succour  : he  was  bound 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


373 


4 To  Florence,  to  resume  this  broken  bond  ; 

‘ Enough  so.  Both  were  happy,  he  and  Howe, 

‘ To  acquit  me  of  the  heaviest  charge  of  all — ’ 

— At  which  I shot  my  tongue  against  my  fly 
And  struck  him ; 4 Would  he  carry, — he  was  just, 

4 A letter  from  me  to  Aurora  Leigh, 

4 And  ratify  from  his  authentic  mouth 
4 My  answer  to  her  accusation  T — 4 Yes, 

4 If  such  a letter  were  prepared  in  time.’ 

— He ’s  just,  your  cousin, — ay,  abhorrently : 

He ’d  wash  his  hands  in  blood,  to  keep  them  clean. 
And  so,  cold,  courteous,  a mere  gentleman, 

He  bowed,  we  parted. 

4 Parted.  Face  no  more, 
Voice  no  more,  love  no  more ! wiped  wholly  out 
Like  some  ill  scholar’s  scrawl  from  heart  and  slate, — 
Ay,  spit  on  and  so  wiped  out  utterly 
By  some  coarse  scholar ! I have  been  too  coarse, 

Too  human.  Have  we  business,  in  our  rank, 

With  blood  i’  the  veins?  I will  have  henceforth  none, 
Not  even  to  keep  the  colour  at  my  lip  : 

A rose  is  pink  and  pretty  without  blood, 

Why  not  a woman  ? When  we ’ve  played  in  vain 
The  game,  to  adore, — we  have  resources  still, 

And  can  play  on  at  leisure,  being  adored : 

Here ’s  Smith  already  swearing  at  my  feet 
That  I ’m  the  typic  She.  Away  with  Smith ! — 

Smith  smacks  of  Leigh, — and  henceforth  I ’ll  admit 
No  socialist  within  three  crinolines, 

To  live  and  have  his  being.  But  for  you, 


874 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


Though  insolent  your  letter  and  absurd, 

And  though  I hate  you  frankly, — take  my  Smith ! 

For  when  you  have  seen  this  famous  marriage  tied, 

A most  unspotted  Erie  to  a noble  Leigh 
(His  love  astray  on  one  he  should  not  love), 

Howbeit  you  may  not  want  his  love,  beware, 

You  ’ll  want  some  comfort.  So  I leave  you  Smith, 

Take  Smith ! — he  talks  Leigh’s  subjects,  somewhat 
worse ; 

Adopts  a thought  of  Leigh’s,  and  dwindles  it ; 

Goes  leagues  beyond,  to  be  no  inch  behind ; 

Will  mind  you  of  him,  as  a shoe-string  may 

Of  a man : and  women,  when  they  are  made  like  you, 

Grow  tender  to  a shoe-string,  footprint  even, 

Adore  averted  shoulders  in  a glass, 

And  memories  of  what,  present  once,  was  loathed. 

And  yet,  you  loathed  not  Eomney, — though  you  played 
At  4 fox  and  goose  ’ about  him  with  your  soul ; 

Pass  over  fox,  you  rub  out  fox, — ignore 
A feeling,  you  eradicate  it, — the  act ’s 
Identical. 

4 1 wish  you  joy,  Miss  Leigh, 

You ’ve  made  a happy  marriage  for  your  friend, 

And  all  the  honour,  well-assorted  love, 

Derives  from  you  who  love  him,  whom  he  loves ! 

You  need  not  wish  me  joy  to  think  of  it ; 

I have  so  much.  Observe,  Aurora  Leigh, 

Your  droop  of  eyelid  is  the  same  as  his, 

And,  but  for  you,  I might  have  won  his  love, 

And,  to  you,  I have  shown  my  naked  heart ; 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


375 


For  which  three  things,  I hate,  hate,  hate  you.  Hush 
Suppose  a fourth ! — I cannot  choose  but  think 
That,  with  him,  I were  virtuouser  than  you 
AVithout  him  : so  I hate  you  from  this  gulf 
And  hollow  of  my  soul,  which  opens  out 
To  what,  except  for  you,  had  been  my  heaven, 

And  is,  instead,  a place  to  curse  by ! Love.’ 

An  active  kind  of  curse.  I stood  there  cursed, 
Confounded.  I had  seized  and  caught  the  sense 
Of  the  letter,  with  its  twenty  stinging  snakes, 

In  a moment’s  sweep  of  eyesight,  and  I stood 
Hazed. —I * *  4 Ah ! not  married.’ 

‘ You  mistake,’  he  said, 

4 1 ’m  married.  Is  not  Marian  Erie  my  wife  ? 

As  God  sees  things,  I have  a wife  and  child ; 

And  I,  as  I’m  a man  who  honours  God, 

Am  here  to  claim  them  as  my  child  and  wife.’ 

I felt  it  hard  to  breathe,  much  less  to  speak. 

Nor  word  of  mine  was  needed.  Some  one  else 

Was  there  for  answering.  4 Romney,’  she  began, 

4 My  great  good  angel,  Romney.’ 

Then  at  first, 

I knew  that  Marian  Erie  was  beautiful. 

She  stood  there,  still  and  pallid  as  a saint, 

Dilated,  like  a saint  in  ecstasy, 

As  if  the  floating  moonshine  interposed 
Betwixt  her  foot  and  the  earth,  and  raised  her  up 
To  float  upon  it.  4 1 had  left  my  child, 


376 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


Who  sleeps/  she  said,  4 and  having  drawn  this  way 
I heard  yon  speaking,  . . friend ! — Confirm  me  now. 
You  take  this  Marian,  such  as  wicked  men 
Have  made  her,  for  your  honourable  wife  V 

The  thrilling,  solemn,  proud,  pathetic  voice. 

He  stretched  his  arms  out  toward  that  thrilling  voice, 
As  if  to  draw  it  on  to  his  embrace. 

— 4 1 take  her  as  God  made  her,  and  as  men 
Must  fail  to  unmake  her,  for  my  honoured  wife/ 

She  never  raised  her  eyes,  nor  took  a step, 

But  stood  there  in  her  place,  and  spoke  again. 

— 4 You  take  this  Marian’s  child,  which  is  her  shame 
In  sight  of  men  and  women,  for  your  child, 

Of  whom  you  will  not  ever  feel  ashamed  ?’ 

The  thrilling,  tender,  proud,  pathetic  voice. 

He  stepped  on  toward  it,  still  with  outstretched  arms, 
As  if  to  quench  upon  his  breast  that  voice. 

— 4 May  God  so  father  me,  as  I do  him, 

And  so  forsake  me,  as  I let  him  feel 

He ’s  orphaned  haply.  Here  I take  the  child 

To  share  my  cup,  to  slumber  on  my  knee, 

To  play  his  loudest  gambol  at  my  foot, 

To  hold  my  finger  in  the  public  ways, 

Till  none  shall  need  inquire,  4 Whose  child  is  this/ 
The  gesture  saying  so  tenderly,  4 My  own.’  ’ 

She  stood  a moment  silent  in  her  place ; 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


077 

0/  i 


Then  turning  toward  me  very  slow  and  cold, 

— ‘ And  you, — what  say  you  ? — will  you  blame  me  much, 
If,  careful  for  that  outcast  child  of  mine, 

I catch  this  hand  that ’s  stretched  to  me  and  him, 

Nor  dare  to  leave  him  friendless  in  the  world 
Where  men  have  stoned  me  ? Have  I not  the  right 
To  take  so  mere  an  aftermath  from  life, 

Else  found  so  wholly  bare  ? Or  is  it  wrong 
To  let  your  cousin,  for  a generous  bent, 

Put  out  his  ungloved  fingers  among  briars 
To  set  a tumbling  bird’s  nest  somewhat  straight  ? 

You  will  not  tell  him,  though  we  ’re  innocent, 

We  are  not  harmless,  . . and  that  both  our  harms 
Will  stick  to  his  good  smooth  noble  life  like  burrs, 
Never  to  drop  off  though  he  shakes  the  cloak  ? 

You  ’ve  been  my  friend  : you  will  not  now  be  his  ? 

You ’ve  known  him  that  he ’s  worthy  of  a friend, 

And  you  ’re  his  cousin,  lady,  after  all, 

And  therefore  more  than  free  to  take  his  part, 
Explaining,  since  the  nest  is  surely  spoilt 
And  Marian  what  you  know  her, — though  a wife, 

The  world  would  hardly  understand  her  case 
Of  being  just  hurt  and  honest ; while,  for  him, 

’T  would  ever  twit  him  with  his  bastard  child 
And  married  harlot.  Speak,  while  yet  there ’s  time 
You  would  not  stand  and  let  a good  man’s  dog 
Turn  round  and  rend  him,  because  his,  and  reared 
Of  a generous  breed, — and  will  you  let  his  act, 

Because  it ’s  generous  ? Speak.  I ’m  bound  to  you, 
And  I ’ll  be  bound  by  only  you,  in  this.’ 


378 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


The  thrilling,  solemn  voice,  so  passionless, 
Sustained,  yet  low,  without  a rise  or  fall, 

As  one  who  had  authority  to  speak, 

And  not  as  Marian. 

I looked  up  to  feel 

If  God  stood  near  me,  and  beheld  his  heaven 
As  blue  as  Aaron’s  priestly  robe  appeared 
To  Aaron  when  he  took  it  off  to  die. 

And  then  I spoke — 4 Accept  the  gift,  I say, 

My  sister  Marian,  and  be  satisfied. 

The  hand  that  gives,  has  still  a soul  behind 
Which  will  not  let  it  quail  for  having  given, 
Though  foolish  worldlings  talk  they  know  not  what 
Of  what  they  know  not.  Romney ’s  strong  enough 
For  this  : do  you  be  strong  to  know  he ’s  strong  : 
He  stands  on  Right’s  side ; never  flinch  for  him, 

As  if  he  stood  on  the  other.  You  ’ll  be  bound 
By  me  ? I am  a woman  of  repute  ; 

N o fly-blow  gossip  ever  specked  my  life ; 

My  name  is  clean  and  open  as  this  hand, 

Whose  glove  there ’s  not  a man  dares  blab  about 
As  if  he  had  touched  it  freely.  Here ’s  my  hand 
To  clasp  your  hand,  my  Marian,  owned  as  pure ! 

As  pure, — as  I ’m  a woman  and  a Leigh  ! — 

And,  as  I ’m  both,  I ’ll  witness  to  the  world 
That  Romney  Leigh  is  honoured  in  his  choice 
Who  chooses  Marian  for  his  honoured  wife.’ 

Her  broad  wflld  woodland  eyes  shot  out  a light, 

Her  smile  was  wonderful  for  rapture.  ‘ Thanks, 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


379 


My  great  Aurora.’  Forward  then  she  sprang, 

And  dropping  her  impassioned  spaniel  head 
With  all  its  brown  abandonment  of  curls 
On  Romney’s  feet,  we  heard  the  kisses  drawn 
Through  sobs  upon  the  foot,  upon  the  ground — 

4 0 Romney  ! 0 my  angel ! 0 unchanged, 

Though  since  we ’ve  parted  I have  past  the  grave ! 

But  Death  itself  could  only  better  thee , 

Not  change  thee ! — Thee  I do  not  thank  at  all : 

1 but  thank  God  who  made  thee  what  thou  art, 

So  wholly  godlike.’ 

When  he  tried  in  vain 
To  raise  her  to  his  embrace,  escaping  thence 
As  any  leaping  fawn  from  a huntsman’s  grasp, 

She  bounded  olf  and  ’lighted  beyond  reach, 

Before  him,  with  a staglike  majesty 
Of  soft,  serene  defiance, — as  she  knew 
He  could  not  touch  her,  so  was  tolerant 
He  had  cared  to  try.  She  stood  there  wdth  her  great 
Drowned  eyes,  and  dripping  cheeks,  and  strange  sweet 
smile 

That  lived  through  all,  as  if  one  held  a light 
Across  a waste  of  waters, — shook  her  head 
To  keep  some  thoughts  down  deeper  in  her  soul,— 
Then,  white  and  tranquil  like  a summer-cloud. 

Which,  having  rained  itself  to  a tardy  peace, 

Stands  still  in  heaven  as  if  it  ruled  the  day, 

Spoke  out  again — 4 Although,  my  generous  friend, 

Since  last  we  met  and  parted  you  ’re  unchanged, 

And,  having  promised  faith  to  Marian  Erie, 


380 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


Maintain  it,  as  she  were  not  changed  at  all ; 

And  though  that ’s  worthy,  though  that ’s  full  of  halm 

To  any  conscious  spirit  of  a girl 

Who  once  has  loved  you  as  I loved  you  once, — 

Yet  still  it  will  not  make  her  . . if  she ’s  dead, 

And  gone  away  where  none  can  give  or  take 

In  marriage, — able  to  revive,  return 

And  wed  you, — will  it,  Romney  ? Here ’s  the  point 

My  friend,  we  11  see  it  plainer : you  and  I 

Must  never,  never,  never  join  hands  so. 

Nay,  let  me  say  it, — for  I said  it  first 
To  God,  and  placed  it,  rounded  to  an  oath, 

Far,  far  above  the  moon  there,  at  His  feet, 

As  surely  as  I wept  just  now  at  yours, — 

We  never,  never,  never  join  hands  so. 

And  now,  be  patient  with  me ; do  not  think 
I ’m  speaking  from  a false  humility. 

The  truth  is,  I am  grown  so  proud  with  grief, 

And  He  has  said  so  often  through  his  nights 
And  through  his  mornings,  4 Weep  a little  still, 

4 Thou  foolish  Marian,  because  women  must, 

4 But  do  not  blush  at  all  except  for  sin,’ — 

That  I,  who  felt  myself  unworthy  once 
Of  virtuous  Romney  and  his  high-born  race, 

Have  come  to  learn, — a woman,  poor  or  rich, 

Despised  or  honoured,  is  a human  soul, 

And  what  her  soul  is,  that,  she  is  herself, 

Although  she  should  be  spit  upon  of  men, 

As  is  the  pavement  of  the  churches  here, 

Still  good  enough  to  pray  in.  And  being  chaste 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


381 


And  honest,  and  inclined  to  do  the  right, 

And  love  the  truth,  and  live  my  life  out  green 
And  smooth  beneath  his  steps,  I should  not  fear 
To  make  him  thus  a less  uneasy  time 
Than  many  a happier  woman.  Very  proud 
You  see  me.  Pardon,  that  I set  a trap 
To  hear  a confirmation  in  your  voice, 

Both  yours  and  yours.  It  is  so  good  to  know 
’T  was  really  God  who  said  the  same  before ; 

And  thus  it  is  in  heaven,  that  first  God  speaks, 

And  then  his  angels.  Oh,  it  does  me  good, 

It  wipes  me  clean  and  sweet  from  devil’s  dirt, 

That  Romney  Leigh  should  think  me  worthy  still 
Of  being  his  true  and  honourable  wife ! 

Henceforth  I need  not  say,  on  leaving  earth, 

I had  no  glory  in  it.  For  the  rest, 

The  reason ’s  ready  (master,  angel,  friend, 

Be  patient  with  me)  wherefore  you  and  I 
Can  never,  never,  never  join  hands  so. 

I know  you  ’ll  not  be  angry  like  a man 
(For  you  are  none)  when  I shall  tell  the  truth, 

Which  is,  I do  not  love  you,  Romney  Leigh, 

I do  not  love  you.  Ah  well ! catch  my  hands, 

Miss  Leigh,  and  burn  into  my  eyes  with  yours, — 

I swear  I do  not  love  him.  Did  I once  ? 

’T  is  said  that  women  have  been  bruised  to  death 
And  yet,  if  once  they  loved,  that  love  of  theirs 
Could  never  be  drained  out  with  all  their  blood  : 

I ’ve  heard  such  things  and  pondered.  Did  I indeed 
Love  once  ; or  did  I only  worship  ? Yes, 


382 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


Perhaps,  0 friend,  I set  you  up  so  high 
Above  all  actual  good  or  hope  of  good 
Or  fear  of  evil,  all  that  could  be  mine, 

I haply  set  you  above  love  itself, 

And  out  of  reach  of  these  poor  woman’s  arms, 
Angelic  Eomney.  What  was  in  my  thought  ? 

To  be  your  slave,  your  help,  your  toy,  your  tool. 
To  be  your  love  . . I never  thought  of  that : 

To  give  you  love  . . still  less.  I gave  you  love  ? 

I think  I did  not  give  you  anything ; 

I was  but  only  yours, — upon  my  knees, 

All  yours,  in  soul  and  body,  in  head  and  heart, 

A creature  you  had  taken  from  the  ground 
Still  crumbling  through  your  fingers  to  your  feet 
To  join  the  dust  she  came  from.  Did  I love, 

Or  did  I worship  ? judge,  Aurora  Leigh ! 

But,  if  indeed  I loved,  ’t  was  long  ago, — 

So  long ! before  the  sun  and  moon  were  made, 
Before  the  hells  were  open, — ah,  before 
I heard  my  child  cry  in  the  desert  night, 

And  knew  he  had  no  father.  It  may  be 
I ’m  not  as  strong  as  other  woman  are, 

Who,  torn  and  crushed,  are  not  undone  from  love. 
It  may  be  I am  colder  than  the  dead, 

Who,  being  dead,  love  always.  But  for  me, 

Once  killed,  this  ghost  of  Marian  loves  no  more, 
No  more  . . except  the  child!  . . no  more  at  all. 

I told  your  cousin,  sir,  that  I was  dead ; 

And  now,  she  thinks  I ’ll  get  up  from  my  grave, 
And  wear  my  chin-cloth  for  a wedding-veil, 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


383 


And  glide  along  the  churchyard  like  a bride 

While  all  the  dead  keep  whispering  through  the  withes, 

4 You  would  be  better  in  your  place  with  us, 

4 You  pitiful  corruption  P At  the  thought, 

The  damps  break  out  on  me  like  leprosy 
Although  I ’m  clean.  Ay,  clean  as  Marian  Erie ! 

As  Marian  Leigh,  I know,  I were  not  clean : 

Nor  have  I so  much  life  that  I should  love, 

Except  the  child.  Ah  God  ! I could  not  bear 
To  see  my  darling  on  a good  man’s  knees, 

And  know,  by  such  a look,  or  such  a sigh, 

Or  such  a silence,  that  he  thought  sometimes, 

4 This  child  was  fathered  by  some  cursed  wretch  9 . . 
For,  Romney, — angels  are  less  tender- wise 
Than  God  and  mothers  : even  you  would  think 
What  we  think  never.  lie  is  ours,  the  child ; 

And  we  would  sooner  vex  a soul  in  heaven 
By  coupling  with  it  the  dead  body’s  thought, 

It  left  behind  it  in  a last  month’s  grave, 

Than,  in  my  child,  see  other  than  . . my  child. 

We  only,  never  call  him  fatherless 
Who  has  God  and  his  mother.  0 my  babe, 

My  pretty,  pretty  blossom,  an  ill-wind 
Once  blew  upon  my  breast ! can  any  think 
I ’d  have  another, — one  called  happier, 

A fathered  child,  with  father’s  love  and  race 
That ’s  worn  as  bold  and  open  as  a smile, 

To  vex  my  darling  when  he ’s  asked  his  name 
And  has  no  answer  ? What ! a happier  child 
Than  mine,  my  best, — who  laughed  so  loud  to-night 


384 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


He  could  not  sleep  for  pastime?  Nay,  I swear 
By  life  and  love,  that,  if  I lived  like  some, 

And  loved  like  . . some , ay,  loved  yon,  Romney  Leigh, 
As  some  love,  (eyes  that  have  wept  so  much,  see  clear, ) 
I ’ve  room  for  no  more  children  in  my  arms, 

My  kisses  are  all  melted  on  one  mouth, 

I would  not  push  my  darling  to  a stool 
To  dandle  babies.  Here ’s  a hand  shall  keep 
For  ever  clean  without  a marriage-ring, 

To  tend  my  boy  until  he  cease  to  need 
One  steadying  finger  of  it,  and  desert 
(Not  miss)  his  mother’s  lap,  to  sit  with  men. 

And  when  I miss  him  (not  he  me)  I ’ll  come 
And  say,  4 Now  give  me  some  of  Romney’s  work, 

To  help  your  outcast  orphans  of  the  world 

And  comfort  grief  with  grief.’  For  you,  meantime. 

Most  noble  Romney,  wed  a noble  wife, 

And  open  on  each  other  your  great  souls, — 

I need  not  farther  bless  you.  If  I dared 
But  strain  and  touch  her  in  her  upper  sphere 
And  say,  4 Come  down  to  Romney — pay  my  debt !’ 

I should  be  joyful  with  the  stream  of  joy 
Sent  through  me.  But  the  moon  is  in  my  face  . . 

I dare  not, — though  I guess  the  name  he  loves ; 

I ’m  learned  with  my  studies  of  old  days, 

Remembering  how  he  crushed  his  under-lip 
When  some  one  came  and  spoke,  or  did  not  come : 
Aurora,  I could  touch  her  with  my  hand, 

And  fly  because  I dare  not.’ 


She  was  gone. 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


385 


He  smiled  so  sternly  that  I spoke  in  haste. 

4 Forgive  her — she  sees  clearly  for  herself : 

Her  instinct ’s  holy.’ 

4 1 forgive  !’  he  said, 

4 I only  marvel  how  she  sees  so  sure, 

While  others  ’ . . there  he  paused, — then  hoarse,  abrupt, — 
4 Aurora  ! you  forgive  us,  her  and  me  ? 

For  her,  the  thing  she  sees,  poor  loyal  child, 

If  once  corrected  by  the  thing  I know, 

Had  been  unspoken,  since  she  loves  yon  well, 

Has  leave  to  love  you : — while  for  me,  alas, 

If  once  or  twice  I let  my  heart  escape 

This  night,  . . remember,  where  hearts  slip  and  fall 

They  break  beside  : we  ’re  parting, — parting, — ah, 

You  do  not  love,  that  you  should  surely  know 
What  that  word  means.  Forgive,  be  tolerant ; 

It  had  not  been,  but  that  I felt  myself 
So  safe  in  impuissance  and  despair, 

I could  not  hurt  you  though  I tossed  my  arms 
And  sighed  my  soul  out.  The  most  utter  wretch 
Will  choose  his  postures  when  he  comes  to  die, 
However  in  the  presence  of  a queen ; 

And  you  ’ll  forgive  me  some  unseemly  spasms 
Which  meant  no  more  than  dying.  Ho  you  think 
I had  ever  come  here  in  my  perfect  mind, 

Unless  I had  come  here  in  my  settled  mind 
Bound  Marian’s,  bound  to  keep  the  bond  and  give 
My  name,  my  house,  my  hand,  the  things  I could, 

To  Marian  ? For  even  I could  give  as  much  : 

Even  I,  affronting  her  exalted  soul 


386 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


By  a supposition  that  she  wanted  these, 

Could  act  the  husband’s  coat  and  hat  set  up 
To  creak  i’  the  wind  and  drive  the  world-crows  o ft 
From  pecking  in  her  garden.  Straw  can  fill 
A hole  to  keep  out  vermin.  Now,  at  last, 

I own  heaven’s  angels  round  her  life  suffice 
To  fight  the  rats  of  our  society, 

Without  this  Romney : I can  see  it  at  last ; 

And  here  is  ended  my  pretension  which 
The  most  pretended.  Over-proud  of  course, 

Even  so ! — but  not  so  stupid  . . blind  . . that  I, 

Whom  thus  the  great  Taskmaster  of  the  world 
Has  set  to  meditate  mistaken  work, 

My  dreary  face  against  a dim  blank  wall 
Throughout  man’s  natural  lifetime, — could  pretend 
Or  wish  . . 0 love,  I have  loved  you  ! 0 my  soul, 

I have  lost  you ! — but  I swear  by  all  yourself, 

And  all  you  might  have  been  to  me  these  years 
If  that  June-morning  had  not  failed  my  hope, — 

I ’m  not  so  bestial,  to  regret  that  day 

This  night, — this  night,  which  still  to  you  is  fair ! 

Nay,  not  so  blind,  Aurora.  I attest 

Those  stars  above  us  which  I cannot  see  . . 

6 You  cannot  ’ . . 

c That  if  Heaven  itself  should  stoop, 
Remix  the  lots,  and  give  me  another  chance, 

I ’d  say,  4 No  other !’ — I ’d  record  my  blank. 

Aurora  never  should  be  wife  of  mine.’ 


AURORA  LEIGH, 


387 


‘ Not  see  the  stars  ?’ 

4 ’Tis  worse  still,  not  to  see 
To  find  your  hand,  although  we  ’re  parting,  dear. 

A moment  let  me  hold  it  ere  we  part ; 

And  understand  my  last  words — these,  at  last ! 

I would  not  have  you  thinking  when  I ’m  gone 
That  Romney  dared  to  hanker  for  your  love 
In  thought  or  vision,  if  attainable, 

(Which  certainly  for  me  it  never  was) 

And  wished  to  use  it  for  a dog  to-day 

To  help  the  blind  man  stumbling.  God  forbid ! 

And  now  I know  He  held  you  in  his  palm, 

And  kept  you  open-eyed  to  all  my  faults, 

To  save  you  at  last  from  such  a dreary  end. 

Believe  me,  dear,  that,  if  I had  known  like  Him 
What  loss  was  coming  on  me,  I had  done 
As  well  in  this  as  He  has. — Farewell  you 
Who  are  still  my  light, — farewell ! How  late  it  is  : 

I know  that,  now.  You ’ve  been  too  patient,  sweet. 

I will  but  blow  my  whistle  toward  the  lane, 

And  some  one  comes, — the  same  who  brought  me  here. 
Get  in — Good-night.’ 

4 A moment.  Heavenly  Christ ! 
A moment.  Speak  once,  Romney.  ’T  is  not  true. 

I hold  your  hands,  I look  into  your  face — 

You  see  me  ?’ 

4 No  more  than  the  blessed  stars. 

Be  blessed  too,  Aurora.  Nay,  my  sweet, 

You  tremble.  Tender-hearted ! Ho  you  mind 
Of  yore,  dear,  how  you  used  to  cheat  old  J ohn, 


388 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


And  let  the  mice  out  slily  from  his  traps, 

Until  he  marvelled  at  the  sonl  in  mice 
Which  took  the  cheese  and  left  the  snare  ? The  same 
Dear  soft  heart  always ! ’T  was  for  this  I grieved 
Howe’s  letter  never  reached  yon.  Ah,  you  had  heard 
Of  illness, — not  the  issue,  not  the  extent : 

My  life  long  sick  with  tossings  up  and  down, 

The  sudden  revulsion  in  the  blazing  house, 

The  strain  and  struggle  both  of  body  and  soul, 

Which  left  fire  running  in  my  veins  for  blood  : 

Scarce  lacked  that  thunderbolt  of  the  falling  beam 
Which  nicked  me  on  the  forehead  as  I passed 
The  gallery-door  with  a burden.  Say  heaven’s  bolt, 
Not  William  Erie’s,  not  Marian’s  father’s, — tramp 
And  poacher,  whom  I found  for  what  he  was, 

And,  eager  for  her  sake  to  rescue  him, 

Forth  swept  from  the  open  highway  of  the  world, 
Road-dust  and  all, — till,  like  a woodland  boar 
Most  naturally  unwilling  to  be  tamed, 

He  notched  me  with  his  tooth.  But  not  a word 
To  Marian  ! and  I do  not  think,  besides, 

He  turned  the  tilting  of  the  beam  my  way, — 

And  if  he  laughed,  as  many  swear,  poor  wretch, 

Nor  he  nor  I supposed  the  hurt  so  deep. 

We  ’ll  hope  his  next  laugh  may  be  merrier, 

In  a better  cause.’ 

‘ Blind,  Romney  ?’ 

4 Ah,  my  friend, 

You  ’ll  learn  to  say  it  in  a cheerful  voice. 

I,  too,  at  first  desponded.  To  be  blind, 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


389 


Turned  out  of  nature,  mulcted  as  a man, 

Eefused  tlie  daily  largesse  of  the  sun 
To  humble  creatures ! When  the  fever’s  heat 
Dropped  from  me,  as  the  flame  did  from  my  house, 

And  left  me  ruined  like  it,  stripped  of  all 
The  hues  and  shapes  of  aspectable  life, 

A mere  bare  blind  stone  in  the  blaze  of  day, 

A man,  upon  the  outside  of  the  earth, 

As  dark  as  ten  feet  under,  in  the  grave, — 

Why  that  seemed  hard.’ 

‘ No  hope  V 

‘ A tear ! you  weep, 
Divine  Aurora  ? tears  upon  my  hand ! 

I ’ve  seen  you  weeping  for  a mouse,  a bird, — 

But,  weep  for  me,  Aurora  ? Yes,  there ’s  hope. 

Not  hope  of  sight, — I could  be  learned,  dear, 

And  tell  you  in  what  Greek  and  Latin  name 
The  visual  nerve  is  withered  to  the  root, 

Though  the  outer  eyes  appear  indifferent, 

Unspotted  in  their  crystals.  But  there ’s  hope. 

The  spirit,  from  behind  this  dethroned  sense, 

Sees,  waits  in  patience  till  the  walls  break  up 
From  which  the  bas-relief  and  fresco  have  dropt : 

There ’s  hope.  The  man  here,  once  so  arrogant 
And  restless,  so  ambitious,  for  his  part, 

Of  dealing  with  statistically  packed 
Disorders  (from  a pattern  on  his  nail), 

And  packing  such  things  quite  another  way, — 

Is  now  contented.  From  his  personal  loss 
He  has  come  to  hope  for  others  when  they  lose, 


390 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


And  wear  a gladder  faith  in  what  we  gain  . . 

Through  bitter  experience,  compensation  sweet, 

Like  that  tear,  sweetest.  I am  qniet  now, 

As  tender  surely  for  the  suffering  world, 

But  quiet, — sitting  at  the  wall  to  learn, 

Content  henceforth  to  do  the  thing  I can : 

For,  though  as  powerless,  said  I,  as  a stone, 

A stone  can  still  give  shelter  to  a worm, 

And  it  is  worth  while  being  a stone  for  that : 

There ’s  hope,  Aurora.’ 

6 Is  there  hope  for  me  ? 

For  me  ? — and  is  there  room  beneath  the  stone 
For  such  a worm? — And  if  I came  and  said  . . 

What  all  this  weeping  scarce  will  let  me  say, 

And  yet  what  women  cannot  say  at  all 
But  weeping  bitterly  . . (the  pride  keeps  up, 

Until  the  heart  breaks  under  it)  . . I love, — 

I love  you,  Bomney  ’ . . . 

‘ Silence !’  he  exclaimed. 

‘ A woman’s  pity  sometimes  makes  her  mad. 

A man’s  distraction  must  not  cheat  his  soul 
To  take  advantage  of  it.  Yet,  ’t  is  hard — 

Farewell,  Aurora.’ 

c But  I love  you,  sir  ; 

And  when  a woman  says  she  loves  a man, 

The  man  must  hear  her,  though  he  love  her  not, 
Which  . . hush ! . . he  has  leave  to  answer  in  his  turn ; 
She  will  not  surely  blame  him.  As  for  me, 

You  call  it  pity, — think  I ’m  generous  ? 

’T  were  somewhat  easier,  for  a woman  proud 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


391 


As  I am,  and  I ’m  very  vilely  proud, 

To  let  it  pass  as  snob,  and  press  on  you 
Love  born  of  pity, — seeing  that  excellent  loves 
Are  born  so,  often,  nor  the  quicklier  die, — 

And  this  would  set  me  higher  by  the  head 
Than  now  I stand.  No  matter : let  the  truth 
Stand  high ; Aurora  must  be  humble  : no, 

My  love ’s  not  pity  merely.  Obviously 
I ’m  not  a generous  woman,  never  was, 

Or  else,  of  old,  I had  not  looked  so  near 
To  weights  and  measures,  grudging  you  the  power 
To  give,  as  first  I scorned  your  power  to  judge 
For  me,  Aurora.  I would  have  no  gifts 
Forsooth,  but  God’s, — and  I would  use  them  too 
According  to  my  pleasure  and  my  choice, 

As  He  and  I were  equals,  you  below, 

Excluded  from  that  level  of  interchange 
Admitting  benefaction.  You  were  wrong 
In  much  ? you  said  so.  I was  wrong  in  most. 

Oh,  most ! You  only  thought  to  rescue  men 
By  half-means,  half-way,  seeing  half  their  wants, 
While  thinking  nothing  of  your  personal  gain. 

But  I who  saw  the  human  nature  broad 
At  both  sides,  comprehending  too  the  soul’s, 

And  all  the  high  necessities  of  Art, 

Betrayed  the  thing  I saw,  and  wronged  my  own  life 
For  which  I pleaded.  Passioned  to  exalt 
The  artist’s  instinct  in  me  at  the  cost 
Of  putting  down  the  woman’s,  I forgot 
No  perfect  artist  is  developed  here 


392 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


From  any  imperfect  woman.  Flower  from  root, 

And  spiritual  from  natural,  grade  by  grade 
In  all  our  life.  A bandful  of  tbe  earth 
To  make  God’s  image ! the  despised  poor  earth, 

The  healthy  odorous  earth, — I missed  with  it 
The  divine  Breath  that  blows  the  nostrils  out 
To  ineffable  inflatus, — ay,  the  breath 
Which  love  is.  Art  is  much,  but  love  is  more. 

0 Art,  my  Art,  thou  ’rt  much,  but  Love  is  more ! 

Art  symbolises  heaven,  but  Love  is  God 

And  makes  heaven.  I,  Aurora,  fell  from  mine. 

1 would  not  be  a woman  like  the  rest, 

A simple  woman  who  believes  in  love 

And  owns  the  right  of  love  because  she  loves, 

And,  hearing  she ’s  beloved,  is  satisfied 
With  what  contents  God : I must  analyse, 

Confront,  and  question ; just  as  if  a fly 
Refused  to  warm  itself  in  any  sun 
Till  such  was  in  leone : I must  fret 
Forsooth  because  the  month  was  only  May  , 

Be  faithless  of  the  kind  of  proffered  love, 

And  captious,  lest  it  miss  my  dignity, 

And  scornful,  that  my  lover  sought  a wife 
To  use  . . to  use ! 0 Romney,  0 my  love, 

I am  changed  since  then,  changed  wholly, — for  indeed 
If  now  you’d  stoop  so  low  to  take  my  love 
And  use  it  roughly,  without  stint  or  spare, 

As  men  use  common  things  with  more  behind, 

(And,  in  this,  ever  would  be  more  behind) 

To  any  mean  and  ordinary  end, — 


AUKOKA  LEIGH. 


393 


The  joy  would  set  me  like  a star,  in  heaven, 

So  high  up,  I should  shine  because  of  height 
And  not  of  virtue.  Yet  in  one  respect, 

Just  one,  beloved,  I am  in  no  wise  changed : 

I love  you,  loved  you  . . loved  you  first  and  last, 

And  love  you  on  for  ever.  Now  I know 
I loved  you  always,  Eomney.  She  who  died 
Knew  that,  and  said  so ; Lady  Waldemar 
Knows  that ; . . and  Marian.  I had  known  the  same, 
Except  that  I was  prouder  than  I knew, 

And  not  so  honest.  Ay,  and,  as  I live, 

I should  have  died  so,  crushing  in  my  hand 
This  rose  of  love,  the  wasp  inside  and  all, 

Ignoring  ever  to  my  soul  and  you 

Both  rose  and  pain, — except  for  this  great  loss, 

This  great  despair, — to  stand  before  your  face 
And  know  you  do  not  see  me  where  I stand. 

You  think,  perhaps,  I am  not  changed  from  pride, 

And  that  I chiefly  bear  to  say  such  words, 

Because  you  cannot  shame  me  with  your  eyes  ? 

0 calm,  grand  eyes,  extinguished  in  a storm, 

Blown  out  like  lights  o’er  melancholy  seas, 

Though  shrieked  for  by  the  shipwrecked, — 0 my  Dark, 
My  Cloud, — to  go  before  me  every  day 
While  I go  ever  toward  the  wilderness, — 

1 would  that  you  could  see  me  bare  to  the  soul ! 

If  this  be  pity,  ’t  is  so  for  myself, 

And  not  for  Bomney ! he  can  stand  alone ; 

A man  like  him  is  never  overcome : 

No  woman  like  me,  counts  him  pitiable 


394 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


While  saints  applaud  him.  He  mistook  the  world ; 

Bnt  I mistook  my  own  heart,  and  that  slip 
Was  fatal.  Eomney, — will  yon  leave  me  here  ? 

So  wrong,  so  prond,  so  weak,  so  nnconsoled, 

So  mere  a woman ! — and  I love  you  so, 

I love  you,  Eomney — ’ 

Could  I see  his  face, 

I wept  so  ? Did  I drop  against  his  breast, 

Or  did  his  arms  constrain  me  ? were  my  cheeks 
Hot,  overflooded,  with  my  tears,  or  his  ? 

And  which  of  our  two  large  explosive  hearts 
So  shook  me  ? That,  I know  not.  There  were  words 
That  broke  in  utterance  . . melted,  in  the  fire, — 
Embrace,  that  was  convulsion,  . . then  a kiss 
As  long  and  silent  as  the  ecstatic  night, 

And  deep,  deep,  shuddering  breaths,  which  meant  beyond 
Whatever  could  be  told  by  word  or  kiss. 

But  what  he  said  . . I have  written  day  by  day, 

With  somewhat  even  writing.  Did  I think 
That  such  a passionate  rain  would  intercept 
And  dash  this  last  page  ? What  he  said,  indeed, 

I fain  would  write  it  down  here  like  the  rest, 

To  keep  it  in  my  eyes,  as  in  my  ears, 

The  heart’s  sweet  scripture,  to  be  read  at  night 
When  weary,  or  at  morning  when  afraid, 

And  lean  my  heaviest  oath  on  when  I swear 
That,  when  all ’s  done,  all  tried,  all  counted  here, 

All  great  arts,  and  all  good  philosophies, 

This  love  just  puts  its  hand  out  in  a dream 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


395 


And  straight  outstretches  all  things. 

What  he  said, 

I fain  would  write.  But  if  an  angel  spoke 
In  thunder,  should  we  haply  know  much  more 
Than  that  it  thundered  ? If  a cloud  came  down 
And  wrapt  us  wholly,  could  we  draw  its  shape, 

As  if  on  the  outside  and  not  overcome  ? 

And  so  he  spake.  His  breath  against  my  face 
Confused  his  words,  yet  made  them  more  intense, 

(As  when  the  sudden  finger  of  the  wind 
Will  wipe  a row  of  single  city-lamps 
To  a pure  white  line  of  flame,  more  luminous 
Because  of  obliteration)  more  intense, 

The  intimate  presence  carrying  in  itself 
Complete  communication,  as  with  souls 
Who,  having  put  the  body  off,  perceive 
Through  simply  being.  Thus,  ’t  was  granted  me 
To  know  he  loved  me  to  the  depth  and  height 
Of  such  large  natures,  ever  competent, 

With  grand  horizons  by  the  sea  or  land, 

To  love’s  grand  sunrise.  Small  spheres  hold  small  fires 
But  he  loved  largely,  as  a man  can  love 
Who,  baffled  in  his  love,  dares  live  his  life, 

Accept  the  ends  which  God  loves,  for  his  own, 

And  lift  a constant  aspect. 

From  the  day 

I brought  to  England  my  poor  searching  face, 

(An  orphan  even  of  my  father’s  grave) 

He  had  loved  me,  watched  me,  watched  his  soul  in  mine, 
Which  in  me  grew  and  heightened  into  love. 


396 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


For  lie,  a boy  still,  bad  been  told  the  tale 
Of  bow  a fairy  bride  from  Italy 
Witb  smells  of  oleanders  in  lier  bair, 

Was  coming  through  the  vines  to  touch  bis  band ; 
Whereat  the  blood  of  boyhood  on  the  palm 
Made  sudden  beats.  And  when  at  last  I came, 

And  lived  before  him,  lived,  and  rarely  smiled, 

He  smiled  and  loved  me  for  the  thing  I was, 

As  every  child  will  love  the  year’s  first  flower 
(Not  certainly  the  fairest  of  the  year, 

But,  in  which,  the  complete  year  seems  to  blow) 
The  poor  sad  snowdrop, — growing  between  drifts, 
Mysterious  medium  ’twixt  the  plant  and  frost, 

So  faint  with  winter  while  so  quick  with  spring, 
And  doubtful  if  to  thaw  itself  away 
With  that  snow  near  it.  Not  that  Bomney  Leigh 
Had  loved  me  coldly.  If  I thought  so  once, 

It  was  as  if  I had  held  my  hand  in  fire 
And  shook  for  cold.  But  now  I understood 
For  ever,  that  the  very  fire  and  heat 
Of  troubling  passion  in  him  burned  him  clear, 

And  shaped,  to  dubious  order,  word  and  act : 

That,  just  because  he  loved  me  over  all, 

All  wealth,  all  lands,  all  social  privilege, 

To  which  chance  made  him  unexpected  heir, 

And,  just  because  on  all  these  lesser  gifts, 
Constrained  by  conscience  and  the  sense  of  wrong 
He  had  stamped  with  steady  hand  God’s  arrow-mar 
Of  dedication  to  the  human  need, 

He  thought  it  should  be  so  too,  with  his  love. 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


397 


He,  passionately  loving,  wonld  bring  down 
His  love,  his  life,  his  best,  (because  the  best) 

His  bride  of  dreams,  who  walked  so  still  and  high 
Through  flowery  poems  as  through  meadow-grass, 

The  dust  of  golden  lilies  on  her  feet, 

That  she  should  walk  beside  him  on  the  rocks 
In  all  that  clang  and  hewing  out  of  men, 

And  help  the  work  of  help  which  was  his  life, 

And  prove  he  kept  back  nothing, — not  his  soul. 

And  when  I failed  him, — for  I failed  him,  I, 

And  when  it  seemed  he  had  missed  my  love,  he  thought 
‘ Aurora  makes  room  for  a working-noon,’ 

And  so,  self-girded  with  tom  strips  of  hope, 

Took  up  his  life  as  if  it  were  for  death, 

(Just  capable  of  one  heroic  aim,) 

And  threw  it  in  the  thickest  of  the  world, — 

At  which  men  laughed  as  if  he  had  drowned  a dog. 

No  wonder, — since  Aurora  failed  him  first ! 

The  morning  and  the  evening  made  his  day. 

But  oh,  the  night ! oh,  bitter-sweet ! oh,  sweet ! 

0 dark,  0 moon  and  stars,  0 ecstasy 
Of  darkness ! 0 great  mystery  of  love, 

In  which  absorbed,  loss,  anguish,  treason’s  self 
Enlarges  rapture, — as  a pebble  dropt 
In  some  full  wine-cup  over-brims  the  wine ! 

While  we  two  sate  together,  leaned  that  night 
So  close  my  very  garments  crept  and  thrilled 
With  strange  electric  life,  and  both  my  cheeks 


398 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


Grew  red,  then  pale,  with  touches  from  my  hair 
In  which  his  "breath  was, — while  the  golden  moon 
Was  hung  before  our  faces  as  the  badge 
Of  some  sublime  inherited  despair, 

Since  ever  to  be  seen  by  only  one, — 

A voice  said,  low  and  rapid  as  a sigh, 

Yet  breaking,  I felt  conscious,  from  a smile, 

6 Thank  God,  who  made  me  blind,  to  make  me  see ! 
Shine  on,  Aurora,  dearest  light  of  souls, 

Which  rul’st  for  evermore  both  day  and  night ! 

I am  happy.’ 

I flung  closer  to  his  breast, 

As  sword  that,  after  battle,  flings  to  sheath ; 

And,  in  that  hurtle  of  united  souls, 

The  mystic  motions  which  in  common  moods 
Are  shut  beyond  our  sense,  broke  in  on  us, 

And,  as  we  sate,  we  felt  the  old  earth  spin, 

And  all  the  starry  turbulence  of  worlds 
Swing  round  us  in  their  audient  circles,  till, 

If  that  same  golden  moon  were  overhead 
Or  if  beneath  our  feet,  we  did  not  know. 

And  then  calm,  equal,  smooth  with  weights  of  joy, 
His  voice  rose,  as  some  chief  musician’s  song 
Amid  the  old  Jewish  temple’s  Selah-pause, 

And  bade  me  mark  how  we  two  met  at  last 
Upon  this  moon-bathed  promontory  of  earth, 

To  give  up  much  on  each  side,  then  take  all. 

‘ Beloved,’  it  sang,  4 we  must  be  here  to  work ; 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


399 


And  men  who  work  can  only  work  for  men, 

And,  not  to  work  in  vain,  must  comprehend 
Humanity  and  so  work  humanly, 

And  raise  men’s  bodies  still  by  raising  souls, 

As  God  did  first.’ 

4 But  stand  upon  the  earth,’ 

I said,  4 to  raise  them,  (this  is  human  too, 

There ’s  nothing  high  which  has  not  first  been  low, 
My  humbleness,  said  One,  has  made  me  great ! ) 

As  God  did  last.’ 

4 And  work  all  silently 
And  simply,’  he  returned,  4 as  God  does  all ; 

Distort  our  nature  never  for  our  work, 

Nor  count  our  right  hands  stronger  for  being  hoofs. 
The  man  most  man,  with  tenderest  human  hands, 
Works  best  for  men, — as  God  in  Nazareth.’ 

He  paused  upon  the  word,  and  then  resumed ; 

‘ Fewer  programmes,  we  who  have  no  prescience. 
Fewer  systems,  we  who  are  held  and  do  not  hold. 
Less  mapping  out  of  masses  to  be  saved, 

By  nations  or  by  sexes.  Fourier ’s  void, 

And  Comte  absurd, — and  Cabet,  puerile. 

Subsist  no  rules  of  life  outside  of  life, 

No  perfect  manners,  without  Christian  souls  : 

The  Christ  himself  had  been  no  Lawgiver 
Unless  He  had  given  the  life,  too,  with  the  law.’ 

I echoed  thoughtfully — 4 The  man,  most  man, 


400 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


Works  best  for  men,  and,  if  most  man  indeed, 

He  gets  liis  manhood  plainest  from  bis  soul : 
While  obviously  this  stringent  soul  itself 
Obeys  the  old  law  of  development, 

The  Spirit  ever  witnessing  in  ours, 

And  Love,  the  soul  of  soul,  within  the  soul, 
Evolving  it  sublimely.  First,  God’s  love.’ 

* And  next,5  he  smiled,  4 the  love  of  wedded  souls* 
Which  still  presents  that  mystery’s  counterpart. 
Sweet  shadow-rose,  upon  the  water  of  life, 

Of  such  a mystic  substance,  Sharon  gave 
A name  to  ! human,  vital,  fructuous  rose, 

Whose  calyx  holds  the  multitude  of  leaves, 

Loves  filial,  loves  fraternal,  neighbour-loves 
And  civic — all  fair  petals,  all  good  scents, 

All  reddened,  sweetened  from  one  central  Heart! 

4 Alas,’  I cried,  4 it  was  not  long  ago, 

You  swore  this  very  social  rose  smelt  ill.’ 

4 Alas,’  he  answered,  4 is  it  a rose  at  all  ? 

The  filial ’s  thankless,  the  fraternal ’s  hard, 

The  rest  is  lost.  I do  but  stand  and  think, 
Across  the  waters  of  a troubled  life 
This  Flower  of  Heaven  so  vainly  overhangs, 
What  perfect  counterpart  would  be  in  sight 
If  tanks  were  clearer.  Let  us  clean  the  tubes, 
And  wait  for  rains.  0 poet,  0 my  love, 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


401 


Since  / was  too  ambitious  in  my  deed 
And  thought  to  distance  all  men  in  success, 

(Till  God  came  on  me,  marked  the  place  and  said, 
6 Ill-doer,  henceforth  keep  within  this  line, 
Attempting  less  than  others,’ — and  I stand 
And  work  among  Christ’s  little  ones,  content,) 
Come  thou,  my  compensation,  my  dear  sight, 

My  morning-star,  my  morning, — rise  and  shine, 
And  touch  my  hills  with  radiance  not  their  own. 
Shine  out  for  two,  Aurora,  and  fulfil 
My  falling-short  that  must  be  ! work  for  two, 

As  I,  though  thus  restrained,  for  two,  shall  love ! 
Gaze  on,  with  inscient  vision  toward  the  sun, 

And,  from  his  visceral  heat,  pluck  out  the  roots 
Of  light  beyond  him.  Art ’s  a service, — mark  : 

A silver  key  is  given  to  thy  clasp, 

And  thou  shalt  stand  unwearied,  night  and  day. 
And  fix  it  in  the  hard,  slow-turning  wards, 

To  open,  so,  that  intermediate  door 

Betwixt  the  different  planes  of  sensuous  form 

And  form  insensuous,  that  inferior  men 

May  learn  to  feel  on  still  through  these  to  those, 

And  bless  thy  ministration.  The  world  waits 

For  help.  Beloved,  let  us  love  so  well, 

Our  work  shall  still  be  better  for  our  love, 

And  still  our  love  be  sweeter  for  our  work, 

A nd  both  commended,  for  the  sake  of  each, 

By  all  true  workers  and  true  lovers  born. 

Now  press  the  clarion  on  thy  woman’s  lip 

2 D 


0 


402 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


( Love’s  holy  kiss  shall  still  keep  consecrate) 

And  breathe  thy  fine  keen  breath  along  the  brass, 
And  blow  all  class-walls  level  as  Jericho’s 
Past  Jordan, — crying  from  the  top  of  souls, 

To  souls,  that,  here  assembled  on  earth’s  flats, 

They  get  them  to  some  purer  eminence 
Than  any  hitherto  beheld  for  clouds ! 

What  height  we  know  not, — but  the  way  we  know, 
And  how  by  mounting  ever,  we  attain, 

And  so  climb  on.  It  is  the  hour  for  souls, 

That  bodies,  leavened  by  the  will  and  love, 

Be  lightened  to  redemption.  The  world ’s  old, 

But  the  old  world  waits  the  time  to  be  renewed, 
Toward  which,  new  hearts  in  individual  growth 
Must  quicken,  and  increase  to  multitude 
In  new  dynasties  of  the  race  of  men  ; 

Developed  whence,  shall  grow  spontaneously 
New  churches,  new  (economies,  new  laws 
Admitting  freedom,  new  societies 
Excluding  falsehood : He  shall  make  all  new. 

My  Romney  ! — Lifting  up  my  hand  in  his, 

As  wheeled  by  Seeing  spirits  toward  the  east, 

He  turned  instinctively,  where,  faint  and  far, 
Along  the  tingling  desert  of  the  sky, 

Beyond  the  circle  of  the  conscious  hills, 

Were  laid  in  jasper-stone  as  clear  as  glass 
The  first  foundations  of  that  new,  near  Day 
Which  should  be  builded  out  of  heaven  to  God. 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


403 


He  stood  a moment  with  erected  brows 
In  silence,  as  a creature  might  who  gazed, — 
Stood  calm,  and  fed  his  blind,  majestic  eyes 
Upon  the  thought  of  perfect  noon  : and  when 
I saw  his  soul  saw, — ‘ Jasper  first/  I said, 

‘ And  second,  sapphire ; third,  chalcedony ; 
The  rest  in  order, — last,  an  amethyst.’ 


THE  END. 


LONDON . FItINTF.D  BY  WTLLTAM  CLO AVI'S  AND  SONS,  STAMFORD  STREET 


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^y&tPI  CKX  R l 
NCW  & SECOND-HAND 

Wco/fseTlenr.  * Wttfionn&&e\ 

3.BRIDCE  STREET, 

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